Red And Blue Shifts Poem by Robert Rorabeck

There is still a storm echoing in silence
From the pit of the universe: measurable, and
Good for science-fiction:
I like to pretend that myself too is in blue shift;
I go out into the great alluvial plains higher up
Where they keep the grizzlies, and get naked in
A cerulean tarp. Now here the Aurora Borealis is kind
Of like a streaming curtain opened at the edge of space;
And now sounds are gambles. Maybe they are just recorded
Over the permafrost- Maybe they have already happened,
Are echoes, or premonitions- I’m not sure;
Yet down beneath in the states more readily lined the buses
Turn around, yellow, comely, depositing and picking up,
Keeping good time- tromping up the fine young students' legs
Yet learning where eyes fall like covetous super heroes and
Arch villains under the merciless halogen lights of math class:
I don’t care- I laugh- I eat crackerjacks! I am no more
A part of that invention. How could I ever get published, moving
So far away, steadily tramping. Tomorrow I might even become
Russian- I sympathize with the blue shift, the janitors,
The cleaners up of barren enterprise; and her legs?
And her breasts pressed up against her learning? Her areolas
Freckled silver dollars nipples pen to without milk: Without consciousness,
She turns the other way, dressed all in red, she is the wave which
Goes through the door and falls into his arms.