Robert Rorabeck Poems

You cannot say that
You were not once my instrument—
Fitting into my hands,
My intimate plough—
...

Before I grow tired and die,
Like a sickly infant before it knows this language,
I want to look up and see the world metamorphosed
Into a single thing, a word spoken in a whisper,
...

I listen to the old man.
He says, “Space is meaningless.
Observe.” He reaches out his hand
And pulls a young girl from the air.
...

Brother,
She could be doing anything right now—
She could be making love,
But she’s probably serving domestic beers
...

Let me be clear:
The sun before it goes down
Has no home.
There are still people inside
...

Maybe I will meet a fine girl
At the funeral this
Evening,
...

There are no more shadows.
For the sun has chain-ganged
The stars on the dark side
Of the moon,
...

I am through performing
Grotesquely muted
Against this voyeuristic
Wall
...

My love returns to nothing.
Dead relatives place black tulips on
My living tomb, as her eyelids flap like ravens
Around the branches of another man—
...

When she says
Such pretty things

It makes me want
...