The Healthy Lips Of A Sub-Ethereal World Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I’ve fed on the breast, like the titted shop where
Your children were raised until they awakened into the
Water fountains in the hallways of their
First world,
And the cars traveled around the world, speaking like zoetropes
To the drunken Indians,
While the airplanes where like a mobile of healthy and brightly
Painted buzzards,
Like cartoons of helium above where the crops blazed:
And your eyes where the stepping stones down into
The forts where my youngest boy lived
And kissed the echinus’s open so that the tree frogs could
Survive on the pedals of redness;
It was like your body as well, opening up into a wishing well
Where all my wealth was spent
And twinkled down there like gold selkies wavering
In the loose fitting estuaries, striking like candles for the healthy
Lips of a sub-ethereal world.