My Reptilian And Jet Engine Way Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I keep moving without moving:
I keep tramping without song, and some folk call me beautiful
Underneath the dark tresses of the
Night so young,
And I haven’t been doing anything that hasn’t been figured out,
Like softly molested fingers pressing through the
Youngish earth of graveyards,
Like dragons who have just learned how to fly:
And Alma is going back to school, and she is the brightest barb
Burning before my eyes,
While the captains sing out their next play,
And the ghosts keep their cities in the ruble above the brilliant
Though pigmy city randy along the outlines of the
Pagan bay;
And it has not been so long since I have felt her blood seep like
Rich minerals, and pregnant, like red caves along the phallus of
My charge,
While Alma asked me today if it had really been five years since
My last love,
And I said yes, but did not go on to say that it was even longer,
While witches send their curses across the soft deltas of the
Bobbing airplanes;
And if she doesn’t know what is real, then I will not bother her:
I will just suck her name between my teeth like the suicides
Of virgins,
Or something else that I have no business describing, before
I go on along my reptilian and jet engine way.