The Exhibit Of Your Thoughtless Well Of Souls Poem by Robert Rorabeck

These words die like lucky rabbits in rock gardens:
And you’ve been speaking so long with your
Blue eyes,
Getting hitched up on buses and making it all the way
To the Rocky Mountains,
That I just want to self-publish you:
And it is just like a dream, you and your sweeter, older
Sister walking out amidst the saw grasses in
Saint Augustine
Where the conquistadors didn’t have to survive,
Where I have tasted the sulfuric tourisms of the fountain
Of youth after midnight;
Erin, while you slept with you guitar bearing boyfriend,
And I looked up the skirt of a day glowing lesbian
Who is now in San Francisco while you
Are still in Gainesville, but not Georgia; and this is the way
The white buds weep before they metamorphosis:
It is strange, don’t you think the way they turn into orange:
The chrysalis, the day gone metamorphosis:
The pungent aromas of popular kids,
The tadpoles into hapless princess, like monkeys and goldfish
Into mermaids;
Erin, I still wonder what happened to you; and more so why
Do I keep having to do this; and who do you love,
Or follow into the rainbows of unabashed Eucharist,
Like the leonine salts that baptized the side of Christ after he came
Down in the crepuscule of this latest Christmas:
This pain I feel is like tadpoles in the shallow basements of a
Canal,
My mother out walking her eventful streets full of fits and
Criminals, and what’s more I have been kidnapped forever into
The exhibit of your thoughtless well of souls.