To See What They Can Get Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Rhythms in the creek of gist, foaming airplanes,
Open wrists: the body takes its times going from the leaking
Flea markets,
Sashaying to the navy- heliotrope is the desert of its
Forest, where the wolves hunt
Outside the damp patios and Astroturf that zoetrope
Cantinas;
And if you were lying low: as if you were lying right here:
Down enough to be the eking devil of my abode,
Why then I’d swear we could go together into that kind of
Necrotic Disney World:
We could go all the way down, with the moans of cenotaphed
Seashells in our ears:
With the same type of feral rapture that her tiny brown wings of
Lips gave to the lieutenants of my senses a couple weeks a
Go;
And now holidays and fieldtrips- like bagworms crawling up
Walls trying to make it to the pawn shop
To see what they can get for their golden fears.