The Cataracts Of Her Homeopathic Oils Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You have an office and I have a song,
And so many restraints:
I paint the signs over and picture you, whetting my whistle
On the suppositional hullabaloo:
And the days step forward like this like careworn beauty
Pageants,
Beautiful girls in beaten up Fords: Then they are like pagan
Sacrifices dripping and nude in the back alleys of their
Back yards:
They are inescapable and undressed terrapin, they prick their
Fingers to the muffled sound of religious institution,
And the stenographers busily keeping up like ants crowning
Boulders:
Her shoulders flexed and round like ferris wheels and then like
Roller coasters:
The trees get off in her feels, the cats purr like outboard motors;
The knives glisten in the glade of his right ears,
Or at least that is what he told her:
And then she has a towel draped over her like a stage, and in the
Night it rains and she just lies pullulating beneath the hedge,
A toad in the drip of her navel, a snake on each leg,
Their legless bellies counting the beats of her blood in their little
Coils- like satanic Moils they rest upon her and
Dream of the cataracts of her homeopathic oils.