Robert Rorabeck Poems

I will look at you from here
Where I am broken, where I don’t belong
Literally across the world
From our vanished paradise—
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Catharsis of filth
Woebegone in the mountains—
The cars drive by the closed
Burger joints
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Little broken birds with broken
Wings
Never to return to homes
Or arks—
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Womb of cards and brick-a-brack
And all of the shoulder’s happening—
Not in the busied amphitheatre,
But in the little city ensconsced beneath the
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I seem invest in your shadow,
Thought I am here,
Resting after your cadaver,
And if your cards get low enough,
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Grasses sweating beneath horses
That are standing asleep the night in my father’s
Pasture
My son’s grandparents having irrigated this day
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In Shanghai I practice a mundane drudgery:
I lay in bed all day
Some five stories up in a Shanghai suburb:
And so I sleep off and on in my wife’s
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Demanding a theft in the shadows, the angels dive
Perpetually—collecting oxygen and gravity in
Their mouths,
Trying to concoct a loving substance that brings death,
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Broken into the windows of the women that
Are so open hearted,
They wished, they hoped
That we would condone them—and open them
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Wounded anonymity can find a spot
To lie down beside the fire,
And think of things less wickedly in which to conspire:
All considering the ways
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