The Crenulated Ebullitions Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Throat burns as if I’ve swallowed a very personal faerie;
But it is only the liquor that burns,
My throat in its veins like a dozen thorny roses,
And I could say that above my planes
The moon is waxing gibbous, because that is what it
Does
Poetically;
Just one moon like a corpse in a coffin floating like
A balloon above a tiny teal sea,
Like the stone mouth of a copper lion flowing with
Water stolen from the pipes;
And there is a girl in the bath practicing swimming;
She is listening to the music of the Spanish Civil
War,
The cows and poets dying;
And the water spills and caracoles her careless hinges;
And it is as if I have almost seen her before,
Before all of this study, like a sophomoric uncertainty,
The still life that is restless into her cycles of
Bleeding in between the legs of frightened does
Like fish with hooks in their mouths;
And these words peel out as if in a parking lot of fireworks;
And right now there is nobody out there who thinks you
Measure up,
But you can imagine that her eyes are waiting to look up
And find you,
To raise her self from the crenulated ebullitions;
To fall into like praises like something silly though silken,
Realizing she was only a magic trick destined to return
Swiftly to that illusion before you came along
And created better lies for her, like indestructible carriages
She can now use to continue much further along.