With Hips Of Tattoos Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Turning up for brail like children without any sense,
Wimpled in pieces of dismissive alphabet reaching for the
Sun:
You know that is just how your bodies are, like spindles of
Golden castles on the run:
Cresting atop of my pistols, and pointing all of your guns,
The eurhythmics of cheetahs with hips of tattoos,
And your eyes far away atop of your nubile pedestal:
This is how I think of you after you have conquered,
And won over me by what you have done.