Promising Away Their Maybes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Revolving the carousel in days of untried wonder:
All the woman sticky tongued-
All the men spent of their thunder; while, underbelly,
The sea has ridges: has caracoles,
Breaking anyway that he finds her, combing around
The sloughs and bends,
Whispering to the traffics of her elbows and knees,
That this pain should surcease,
And be amputated from the moon: there it goes,
Something stolen away,
Something bled- discovered of its thievery:
Like marbled children put forever to rest underneath a mapled
Cemetery,
And then the angels drive around them, breathing out their
Insinuations of condolences,
Breathing in the stolen daisies- while the nursery rhymes continue
To exist,
Cursing their pleasures, and always promising away their maybes.