Robert Rorabeck Poems

At the warmed center of my being, I have a luscious pit
And it is singing through the dark and storminess; and it feels as if
I were not alone:
The words rejoin and they make eyes at one another just like blond-haired
...

Bodies curling in their beds as strumpets,
As their tits are curling
Upwards like Christmas ornaments, and listen to all the many
Stories that they have been telling:
...

Bodies persistent in their new marriage and I am
Taking the long way around my caracoles,
And I don’t want to have to say anything more about
Alaska:
...

High in those basins where I wished that we’d
Made love,
And while my dumb mother is brushing her teeth and getting
Ready to go to bed in a rainy trailer park,
...

This body is so voluble that it explodes;
The busy intersections of the street do not have a notion,
While the day travels long ways,
And the pretty girls enter into it smelling of their potions:
...

I’ve dropped the book of Wallace Stevens in the crook of
My fold out bed, Alma;
Along with my empty liquor bottle; but lucky me, I have another
That isn’t so empty;
...

The moons winnows; oh my god I’ve seen it done
And now I have to spit or I should choke;
Sharon, why do you write to me of these things:
Sharon, I am not beautiful:
...

I smell the clefts of books in place if finding the
Face of Wallace Stevens.
And I would otherwise want to be anywhere, enlightened,
Stretched out like a cherry and golden worm:
...

Trying to shake myself awake like a fish,
Born in the lower regions of the Marianes Trench;
Now I suppose that I am beautiful or that I have to be beautiful,
Because I have come up from so many piano keys of depths,
...

The traffic doesn’t hear me when I am tucking to bed,
When the traffic has mostly done gnawing the bones of the road
Where angels float like smoke
Whipping jingoistic across the drum-beats of the world:
...