Song Bird Of A Fist Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Song Bird Of A Fist



Our plants rise up like green children through
The red-haired fire:
Your body is a tender brook where the fish sweat and perspire:
And you made it all the way here
In a wander bound bus when you were merely sixteen,
And I wonder why I haven’t seen you before in my dreams;
Or if I had seen you before,
I hadn’t colored in the eyes of your children, practicing my
Second hand romances underneath the saccharine
Zoetropes of the deep set pines:
I lay beneath you like a wind chime mouthing off to
Butterflies in their glass house at the zoo:
Alma,
Your eyes have a calm fever of a Siamese pinball game,
Like helicopters flying in tandem through a cloudless storm to
Some waypoint of a mirage:
And if I had a horse, I’d ride out to you and circle around,
Trying to enchant you with the roaring bouquet of my quiet
Body’s sound:
I expire to that, Alma, and to become the wild hopes that you
Have never thought of before:
And I will never be resurrected again, Alma, until I feel your
Song bird of a fist gently rasping on my bachelor’s door.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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