Robert Rorabeck Poems

Alma’s man carries good witchcraft like a saber-
His weapon haunts my wounds for a little while
As I die,
As the numbers of airplanes fly and then vanish in the sky:
...

Now they are talking smoke:
And all around them the chaos rides up trees:
They seem to be getting to the coney
Pinnacle
...

I don’t want to live without you- for a little while
As the hours die:
The sea of horses jumping over the house, despising
Its suburban wives;
...

The good witchcraft of my song impedes my weary
Epiphany: see the light house in her gory sorority looking
Far and then further away:
And now this poem: all of the angels up in arms,
...

Now it happens that I drink good rum:
Burning like a fire in a forest emblazed by the sea:
Losing all of my numbers, and the ways to go home:
My good dog licking my face,
...

Oh now all of these scars, believing that I was wrong,
Trying to find their own way back from Mexico
After you had fled with your legs:
Here are the words spent in the silent interludes of the
...

The ghost unobserved in a sea
Of cacophonous Latinos,
...

I weigh the same as a
Small planet.
...

Revolving the carousel in days of untried wonder:
All the woman sticky tongued-
All the men spent of their thunder; while, underbelly,
The sea has ridges: has caracoles,
...

Pain in a terrible candle of gold:
Leaping above the traffic, blinding the lighthouse,
And the better avenues down which I am
Too dumb to travel;
...