Robert Rorabeck Poems

When I sometimes don’t believe in
Poetry anymore,
Most particularly my own,
Then there is no wind, and the sea
...

I live inside a finished book,
Set aside and mostly unrecalled-
A book of furtive sentences over before
They begin,
...

Women like us
Because we eat cold eels
And think distant thoughts
Stolen from the opal waves.
...

When the sky promises rain,
And the highway is fuming like a volcanic serpent
Expressing the revenues of her men,
I find myself kneeling beneath you in the cut of
...

On the day I die
Will there be time to eat cake,
Or will everyone be too busy trying
To put me back together on the table
...

She is outside.
Enjoying the world, her pupils
Extend, like lions at the feast,
Red, red lipped in the tall, tall grasses;
...

There are no more birthdays in her eyes,
Because they have opened up a new venture.
Some part of her is still French,
But I cannot tell if it is her upper lip
...

After two glasses of wine,
He tells me, the poems get good,
Because the body warms like cuddling,
Like an Indian blanket outside the
...

If she called me a hippie,
My misquoted Tallahassee lassie,
I could have told her that those rubber tramps
Were fine gentlemen compared to me:
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The best way to do this poem,
Is to ask which exit I must take to go
To where she is,
For the highway is like a flooded river,
...