Of Blue Bells And Washing Machines Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The serpent gave its flesh to my hand—
Leaving a sheath there of what it was done with,
It lit out like an arrow curving into the sea,
Slender rod that does in the god
Kissing through the painted toenails of the waves—
There was nothing great about the art
That covered it—
It vanished across the shoals that had already buried
The first granite crosses ever to come into this world—
There was nothing correct in the direction it
Was heading—
And as it was going along, in slender biceps—
It learned how to petal its stem through the waves
That sang of blue bells and washing machines—
Burying itself into each slender daughter that leapt
In the ways of light to see.