Where Its Prize Is Won Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Spokes on bicycles
Falling through her hair- as if birds
Realizing they are on holiday,
As the waves leap like dogs:
And that they are real, when they travel
Through the cathedrals of time,
And she happens again to be there,
Like a firework who is never done
Clapping-
And her interludes resonate- they look out
Of the windows of her kindreds house,
Where above her the sky is
An apiary burning down the armpits
Of the hemisphere,
And then she swallows her pride and goes
Out into all of the summer,
While back inside the gold fish waits
For her,
A little prize with a littler heart,
Like an enormous spoon that the fly spies,
And drapes its multifaceted simplicity
On the windowsill
Where its prize is won.