The Racecourses Of Everyday Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Ventilation seeming smoke, curling baseball players
To the moon:
Where the airplanes go anyways, arms like clocks spinning
Upwards in the windmills that glow red hot:
The time of loneliness is here: see it down the road,
The fish in the blue canal, the rabbits in the red holes:
Spokes of windmill fire,
Feral encyclopedias- the magics of train robbers steal her
Away from me,
And her two children in department stores:
Her husband a kind of bad dream,
And the love she has called up like a dead child, marking
Over her:
She is a wave happening, chaos and black magic-
And I see her from my citrus tree,
Like seeing the messiah slipping into the bay: I can never have
Her,
But she is my eternity. To her, like a wounded amphibian
Breathing in the early truth of her metamorphosis-
A muse that shortens my life, defining it into a weapon
Slipping low into its schools,
Dashing upon the racecourses of everyday.