Out In The Middle Of The Phoenix Desert Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I specialize in the innocuous motions,
Like the gleeful caesuras of roller-coasters
Put up by the missing nosed-men
And their dwarfish assistants, the half-witted
Tycho Brahe’s who have yet to identify the
Comet’s ellipses,
But who fight and dances just like I do,
Weaponless and sprawling in dimly imagined
Parks; like the menstruations of taxi drivers
Run away from the embers of their highly
Functional parents, trying to situate themselves
In the unnerving alienations of Midwestern cities
Taking wayward fairs and transgendered call girls to earn
Their lonely cessations in hardwater flats,
The inebriated recipients of scientific progress,
Looking out into the swayback glow of the night
And her tresses; as I jog two standard bred
Colts both of them newly castrated, and yet so
Studish: I coo to them in tongues not dissimilar
To those whispered to her when I am alone under
The covers; they move around me, skittish, like
Too leggy satellites, just the same as I am with
Her, like a rugged tide moving in only to fall away,
The casual witchcraft who encaved the haunted inlets,
Her neck like an opal chalice my fingers would resonate
Upon like an ornithologist’s whispers to an extinct
Hummingbird some leagues away from the busy highway
Out in the middle of the Phoenix desert.