To Try And Sculpt The Sea Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I have a picture of you in my studio as a night
Cap—you seem to be coming home, kissing the purloined
Roots of the upturned flowers—
They would be plastic, if they were stolen from the graveyards,
As a new song bird sings—
And the boys get out their golden colors to paint their
Faces—
And I stare out of my window at the moon: there is a new
Cloud hanging over her: she seems to be in a movie,
Or in the middle of making one:
While I sometimes dream about writing a novel about Lancelot's
Child—
And my wife just wants to come to America baring our child:
And he will come,
And she will come, and fill up the hospitals with her screams—
While the flags whip in the wind,
And the waves continue to try and sculpt the sea.