With Plans Of Yesterday Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It is my job to drink this
Liquor,
To sit like a scarred basement
Underneath
The tinfoil fascinations
Gazing down
From the heavens-
And reconsider, while the
Gears in our lovestruck
Bodies compound
Their tensions
And windmills our hopes-
Loves like
Bicycles gulping the
Caesuras-
Through the birth canals of
The old avenues-
Aquamarine-
And teardrops of sea horses:
In relations of Queen Anne’s
Wheels,
Or the diadems of hemispheres
Who are perpetually
Fertilizing their inner concentricity’s-
Revealing the yokes swimming
There, like young sisters
Teasing their bare shoulder blades
To the sunlight
With plans of yesterday-