Our Legs Bent Our Noses Bloodied Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Fairly obscured as if esoteric science in the rain,
What these pornographic explorers have been doing,
Trying to burry pain like plastic army men,
Lovers of ghosts and their sandy grail waiting for the
Horizon to lengthen and pale;
And their horses have sideburns and saddlebags,
Their dunes ridden with the mothers of all centipedes,
Freckled with flint arrows;
And Erin is brightly in love: She is so good in love
With her centaurs and strong men:
They pile up and shave and grunt and flex and strut:
They do every macho verb you never been able to bend:
And the stars concentrate for her around the Milky Way,
But she just looks up and smokes them out like
Presocratics from their platonic caves:
They come out like worthless bees, so what is them but the
Useless pollinations of tourists all stacked up with their
Red ribboned boxes of forget-me-nots;
But Erin already doesn’t care. In one step she is over us all
And shopping in some fare flea-market forever closer to the
Sea,
Leave our legs bent and our noses bloodied.