Their Games Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Their Games



Fingers that play their games over
A plums in an orchard, until the airplanes become
A still-life- that they are so puzzled,
And the moonlight and the sunlight, like lovers on a picnic
Hang around for lunch,
So tantalized- as if by a soap opera; and the crop through
The crenulations of lucky leaves
Just keeps getting greener and greener through their experiences
In the fertilizations of light;
And I think under the photosynthesis underneath the holidays,
Like the wishy-washy thoughts of birthday candles,
Like the songs of the spokes of daisies, or in the truancies of
So many bicycles:
Either she loves me or she loves me not;
Though I love her, either way.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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