Marionettes Of Similacrum Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Marionettes Of Similacrum



The satellites have their digs all around the faces
Of stolen light,
Pirouetting mouthlessly, without any fear of rattlesnakes,
As beneath them the traffic
Pushes through the crepuscule of zoetropes:
And it goes this way for housewives,
Who have finally taken off their glass slippers:
Cant you see they are done shopping, and they are as good as
Naked having culled the throats of mailboxes and into
The kitchens of their grottos again:
What do you suppose it is that they will be doing,
With the pool like a cooling diamond behind them, and further
Down like a chess piece on the mowed easement of
The torpid canal, but an alligator as true as turpentine:
About which the mariposas are dancing,
Looming nothing but the briars in the penumbras of airplanes;
And maybe even in this painting, the soul doesn’t
Exist anymore:
Maybe even all of the pretty women are just marionettes of
Similacrum,
Except that I saw you today, Alma: and you kissed my lips so
Many times, proving with each furtive nativity of your being,
That all of my previous supposing have always been wrong.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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