In A Sea Fluming Our Celibate Rooms Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Going down into the vocabularies which
Are undeserving,
Who are barren and can’t make things really grow,
Even after being f-ed by alcohol;
Going back to the familiar hallways of rhyme,
Looking out for her, and the spell of her legs:
And here she’ll come echoing, the catch that we meant,
But will her eyes fall on us against the lockers or,
Will they be spent on other boys with their more
Apparent charms; it seems we’ve always been here,
Catting for her, chewing the little Jew’s tobacco,
Spitting for sin; and the day will turn on and spin
The earth on her axis, and she’s on a swing,
The priest with his censer chanting his thing; and other
Girls who are married, with offspring on flesh,
Gurgling and chewing like aborigines fresh from the bush;
And all day long its like fishing for her:
When she finally comes along, I almost forgot what I
Was going to say; though she pauses for awhile to care for
Her feral Rome: We think of abductions, of carrying her home,
Like a Christmas tree above our heads.
Even with so many lost souls faceless and unremembered from
High school, she is still the one who dances like spiced holidays
Both late and early projecting such faithful fury,
A zoetrope so romantically blurry, in a sea fluming our
Celibate rooms.