Robert Rorabeck Poems

In a cave of Ganymede we have to rest our bones
And then everything after that is poolside
And not even fireside and I have to take a piss:
Why then I am only a peachy heirloom:
...

Scarred without any goals, the unicorns return to
Home base,
The beautiful flowers percolate and it seems that I
Am getting old,
...

Now it happens to be that I found myself for
The first time in the last modern gold rush: even if
It wasn’t real,
The way sometimes butterflies arent very real as they
...

Up in the cradles of nard- up in the jubilee of
The feathers of Indian headdresses:
Taking walks in the cauldrons, following the indistinguishable
Tracks of a sky without a moon:
...

Up in the cradles of nard- up in the jubilee of
The feathers of Indian headdresses:
Taking walks in the cauldrons, following the indistinguishable
Tracks of a sky without a moon:
...

Recoiled like a serpent after his spring:
After whispering of the wisdom of her sexes in her ear,
And making her eat that thing,
Causing the burning planes of summer, for her young and less than
...

Radishes curled on a table of white,
Placed there blushingly by my love’s brown fingers under the
Twin penumbras of the maroon coolers
In the open cavities of daylight where the sore throats of
...

Up in the attic of redressing conifers,
I cannot help but to imagine what we are going to
Sell today,
As all of the stewardesses yawn and open their
...

Forts of cadavers with their
Favorite flowers,
Showing off for tourists in the pollinated showers
Of spring,
...

Bobby, the fairytale is yours: it sings
Through the houses, wilted away: down with the
Green spectacle of coffins
In the yard,
...