Where I Have Never Belonged Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Days of vigilance abroad;
And other sketches brought to
The corners of
The skip, collected as if
Marbles in their mouths-
The traffic still going
Home in the sunlight;
Her soft whisperings
Blowing across the cerulean
Headdress
Of another imposter who
Has no proof of being here,
Except that I have worshipped
Him in
Disgust- and now I dream
Of the color blue from the
Open sills of
Blue gills-
As the little girls fight
Form themselves
Across the open wounds and
Caesuras of the frontera
Until once again
Cradled by the names of spices,
Nesting into the soft green pueblos
Underneath the redondos of
Impassable and paganistic ranges-
The horned animals masturbating
Where I have never belonged.