The Perambulating Nebulas Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Strange limbs gesturing in outer space.
I suppose they are the perambulating nebulas,
But I cannot see them with a naked eye,
How I imagine they go about their jobs
Like softly pin wheeling bees
Pollinating the offices of their roofless universe.

I have nothing else to do, but write another poem.
I don’t know where its going, what might evolve:
The hyphened last names of ex-lovers who want
You to know,
A girl you love smiling in a constellation you made up,
But she is off in her world of leaves and billiard balls.

Another day in the empty wilderness with a toothache,
And the need to connect asexually and forever....
There are only two women in your mind,
And neither one remembers, but the dogs are your friends
As you steadily save your money and the constant premonition
That you will walk on the moon before you die....

But there it is, the fornicating wilderness,
The sea is in a séance taking away her memory;
Soon she will be a doll of shells, with her eyes the ochre
Driftwood of sleeping romances,
And her smile the penumbra of distance satellites,
The complacency of any beauty before a needy urchin:
I would give anything to put just one thumbprint
On the inside of her upper-thigh,

Like a cartographer who has come after so many others,
But appreciating renaming the country all the same....