The Rosy Caracoles Of Her Haunting Symmetries Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I’ve really lost it now:
There are green doors hung up in the grass-
The sun is a trout leaping the overpass,
And girls are dolls and marionettes strung in the
Houses built on a stage of hills:
Each one beautiful, each one singing,
Powdered bosoms:
And I’m in a cart trying to count my fingers,
Forgetting the larger words which once lined my
Vanear like particular degrees:
These girls perfumed underneath the trams,
Being imposed upon by conquistadors
While outside it rains;
And I’m and spinning around and around the
Piece of corkscrew sent screaming from the
Sudsy which is even now making her
Farts whistle while he squeezes her like a
Harpsichord,
Like one of those things- My gondola is a coffin,
And all the fish are coins spilling from the
Wavering prostitutes sleeping beneath them-
Soon my heart should give entirely like a child’s
Hand releasing a balloon,
And I will finally forget Jordan’s sister bathing topless
Beside the pool waiting for her to lean over and
Turn the page, to show the rosy caracoles of
Her haunting symmetries.