Pinpointing Our Souls' Heady Altitude Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Broken records of balmy amnesia-
Everyday reading like a farmer’s almanac in
A cloister of Sundays;
The socking meat has vacated the oysters,
And esplanades are f&cking rich with sand.
My life proceeds with no moisture,
No feminine hand in my hand, no line to drop
Anchor-
Fading, enchained by bothersome amusement,
I petition for a look into your eyes,
For a dream, to feel wonder and real merriment,
To be a ripple in your lake,
To be the solitary moon joined by a captured
Satellite,
And to look coincidentally with you, past the rushing
Sanctions of commodity,
The traffic repeating into unsatisfying homes,
And see those very apexes brushed in the reflecting
Light of another sea on the other side of the world,
As if our eyes were reflecting through a corridor in
A lake,
Pinpointing our souls’ heady altitude.