Lightspeed Champion Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Make love before the coffin
Or a waterfall,
For here are the cleats of low oxygen,
Where the gods have been competing;
Her green breasts lose color,
Pealing back her gardens, only the
Petulant clouds can look into her eyes.
They are the latest in the evening,
When the deadly thunderstorms unfurl
Their insouciant venom.
Look at how we are climbing, way past
Our mother and father,
So far out swimming, they have no
Hope of saving us, the enfant terrible,
Loving our strongest professors,
In docile elegance from the back of the classroom.
See how our eyes portray our feelings,
Like spears piercing the side of the mightiest,
Then something more unremarkable,
A colloquial exercise, painting her eyes-
If she looked back, but she shoots straight as an
Arrow; past the garden, and the harrow,
Becoming a particle of the light, she slides
Off the banal, and into a wavelength, a sonar’s
Echo; we try to place her amidst the constellation,
The lucky bedfellow,
A nymph in Saturn’s garden, her lip’s mollusk,
A seashell’s dusky echo; the footprints lead into the
Waves, and the day is ending its path,
For into the quieted element we cannot follow,
Though we must pine from our bones, our blood must
Bellow,
Though there is no promise she will return upon the morrow.