They Just Turn And Turn Like Clockwork Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Jewel heart and throat,
Crenellating the excess, the mewling rind
That effervesces
And down your savage eyes:
Maybe the sea is pell-mell or just uneasy,
But it make it that way by bathing in it,
And the hat racks are the cliffs.
Aren’t I sad this very instant, and going down
While you are birthing from your bath for my
Father,
For just about any man as the turnip trucks turn
Over.
We all throwing rice over our shoulders, like
Blind pitchers:
And you make love like spice on meat and your
Wine caracoles all the water spirits,
They just turn and turn like clockwork,
As if we all could be doing so fine.