Like Salt Stolen From The Hypothesis Of Waves Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Turns out the world is crisp and golden on the
Other-side,
Rich like the rind-like geodes:
All velveteen and thunderously yellow purred
Down in the throat of the waves
Ushering jubilee:
And you can invite her family over to dinner
Down in the pussywillows of suburbia;
And all the things that will never be published,
Nor will ever strike out can sit down to dinner
And demure,
Enjoy puissant fireworks and chilled watermelon
For desert;
But if you strike out that very night on the claptrap
Bicycles of your very will,
Maybe you’ll find the darker things collected
From your woods of mailboxes;
Maybe you’ll find out where the farther lives,
Old boyfriends from high school you’d thought to
Displace, drinking from the chartreuse chalices of
Stewardesses they’d called down from the sky,
Or were recreating little invested trips with on the
Kitty cornered swings where you’d once kissed:
Now that you are well settled in the holidays
Of denouements,
You keep your little Shakespearian silhouettes;
But boys who live forever can rise up the mountains
Straight from your backyard without enunciation:
They can come at will and recite the night backwards.
Your predawn will become crepuscule,
And you’ll have to s$ck tit to save face, another sad
Exodus from there, those sad boys chirping with the
Amphibians and the stewardesses procured from
High school, like salt stolen from the hypothesis of waves.