Orca's Theatre Poem by Robert Rorabeck

This opening seems clandestine for another go around,
While the octogenarians are falling into their parasitical sleep,
Feeding with lime the roots of aborted orchards nodding like
Unused utensils against the steady roll and shutter of the interstate,

The sun sets as it always does along the palates of her spine:
She sleeps this way, something in hibernation of coital dew,
Her back warmed by the lapping of the Gulf Coast, her breasts leaking
Against the Atlantic,

And I say this to her, as if another of my breaths were her candle:
I hide money for you in an old piano, and rest my cheeks against flatbed trailers
Stolen from Florida, watch the bannered world slant against the cusp of holidays,
As women and men fondled by tattoos recede into the ghosts of the dwindled tent,

And I give this again into her, in such a way that it should not be stolen,
Nor is it recognized as an element leading towards the reproductions of her flesh,
But a mostly silent memory embarking to neither shore, but panting there
In the middle of her Orcas’ theatre, freckled by the clichés of her beauty,

An attentive child lapsed into the dunes and briars scribbled into the worthy shells,
Discovered by her hands momentarily, an oddity from this salty throat,
But indistinguishable, the perishing commodity we leap from, the unstemmed
Swarth of zygotes, pores of her breathing flesh, pinpricks of the amphitheatre

Spinning this religion above our gaping mouths.