In The Out Of Work Zoetrope Of The Emptiest Room Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Up in the echoes of tall trees:
Or remembering the ways that we had to use to
Drive home.
Through the thick and adulterous forest, causing the hijinx
Of forest fires
Off the thick tongues of lustrous foxes,
And then getting home without remembering the key
And masturbating onto a purple rug:
Getting high up into the atmosphere as if to see our muse:
Straight up into the armpit of the heavens,
Lavishing in her cockpits, desiring her sport, as if sneaking into
The day glow crypts of dead heads of state:
And then remembering her words, and how she sat right here:
Like a feather, like a pillow,
Spun out for a sort of glow
Like the lamps at high noon in your mother’s first sort of
House while the dogs chased the rabbit around the
Rock garden in the rented field,
Before you even knew of the primordial pornographies across
The street,
Underneath the canopy of dead fireworks,
Of out of work conquistadors, or took off your shoes to tiptoe across the
Drainage of high school or any old sort of canal-
Like a terrapin sated off the school bus,
Like an orchid glowing with the brightest gods together- for no one
In the out of work zoetrope of the emptiest room.