In The Naked Estuaries Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Juvenile is the lips: there you are in your
Fortress’ stronghold looking up
Through the hours of my classroom:
See if you can find me at the water fountain
Between classes,
Until the buses turn around and the seahorses
Drying like trinkets won in the shoals
And all of the pretty gods
Are gossiping over their numbers in the clouds:
Strange banks such as these
Filled with salmon dreaming up to the skies
Of movie theatres and the pretty
Tricks of cathedrals who only hold the lotteries
Of the merry go rounds,
And as I fail down from your heavens, having
Little thoughts of me
Try to remember what I once was for you,
Even while you sunbathe in the naked estuaries
Of another man.