The Castles Of Golden Hay Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Coy in the stilettos of poniards,
And now this: done with the staccatos up the second
Flights,
Done with the kittens in their baths- and filled with
Scars and resonations,
Little games, and little girls following the slender tribulations
Up the stairs to their freshman lovers
In little rooms under yellow covers- spoken words
Said in whispers,
Dirty dishes- drying flowers- another place to find the
Resilience in the plywood of lumbers:
The facades of freckled shoulders riling like dolphins slipping
Through watery boulders:
Or whatever world it is, spending over and tying its shoes,
Going down like fingers perusing the instruments of
News:
Bad hands that pass her over, losing the games of wanton
Lovers;
Discarded into the dalliances of foxgloves, with someone else
Waking up dearer to her in the castles of golden hay.