Until The Moonlight Is Mocking The Same Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Toiling of problems upon the
Underside of littlest streams- under the light
Of her eyes,
A merry-go-round hardly breathing through
The classrooms of an afternoon-
The words felt around her cheeks that her tears
Eat like ants the
Menstruations of the hemispheres
That gather together in their senses and string
Out across the room in a roe of feelings,
In that nebulous ecstasy that helps
As the day is passing-
So very soon, how she will be returning-
Back into the fanfare of her estuaries, and along her
Silent trips to suburbia’s cathedrals
Where everything holds a very little name that is
Echoing, as the sun dries off them,
Until the moonlight is mocking the same.