The Pretence Of Water That Doesn'T Move Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Like red roses on the hoods of
Dead cars,
I am in love with you parked beneath
The power lines,
The old donkeys overloaded with
Gold,
And bats are flying out of the cave;
And you wouldn’t think that would be
The most beautiful thing,
But now it is crepuscule and we
Are just north of Mexico and the blind man
Is doing his laundry in between the tits
Of stalagmites,
And the micas run as smooth as new born
Foals,
And he knows every breath of her;
And I haven’t bought new clothes in ten years,
But I have the ghost of Billy the Kid
In my underwater speak-easy,
And all the crocodiles who don’t know how
To cry,
And I can almost see you leaning over the other
Side of the canal,
Perhaps because your love is pretending its
Light opulence
In the pretence of water that doesn’t move.