Robert Rorabeck Poems

Kindergarten of muses, of tinker-toys:
Little girls on the sherbet rug,
Pulling up day dreams, already know who
They are going to marry- Premature
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There is nothing here to describe-
All of your senses in a frenzy of windmills-
Nothing without color, fireworks that weep for
The dead stamens of earthquakes-
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In the morning there are still roses,
After the sororities have yawned,
And the mists are leaving raising like stupid flags
Above the elderberries and cockleburs:
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Days of zoetrope addiction,
Little red riding hoods with their virgin apples,
So sweet and deceptive underneath
The banners of heaven,
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I would go and get laid tonight,
If I wasn’t too drunk & I am in love with you,
And all of this foreplay laid like chess pieces atop the
Sink holes in the limestone,
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Abigail,
You were Jordan’s sister, back in junior high and
High school again;
And I just lost my last poem about you,
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They said I was a sancho in the land of
Milking-blood-
The white sands, the caverns of Pieta
The dry grottos, the husks of virgins shivering
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Give me the functionality of bob-cats,
Mariposa,
And I will turn around like a ballet for you,
Under the bright lights of the goddesses
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Nights mouth off through the trees:
Beneath their spatters of coned canopies,
The carnies are doing their job
In light bulb erections:
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She said she never stopped reading my poems;
But from her venal mansions she never cared to right more
Than a hair’s-lick;
When I told her so many times that I wanted to undress
...