What Little I Have Made Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Put my rope up into the air
Where your sweet trees are missing;
It will stand and I will go up and
Disappear,
The busses turning around beneath me
In sweet circles,
Caracoling like timid fingers around
The doorbells,
And the locks of her hair.
When she laid down in bed like a serene
Octopus,
I thought I would be her mystic,
But I am not even a writer:
The words on stage doing battle in plywood
Weathers:
I wish all of the green world would push
It down,
And the vermilion cracks to open all around,
The tennis courts of sea,
Because this is all I have repeating in me,
Anonymous bicycles through
The uneasy glades; and I am weeping
Like the green enamel of
Envious butterflies, so easily destroying
What little I have made.