Yellow Yes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

A green skiff goes sailing in my head.
Everyone on it has long since died,
And there is no longer a cartographer for the sky,
But the sea keeps trying to carry it on
As if nothing has happened;
She is humming up a beautiful day for no
One to see in the heart of her, in my head;
In the long doldrums where she can barely move
And it just sits there like a coffin in a dull living room,
But she will not admit to what she has done,
The long absences in the careless wind-
The lips she tastes under the lampshades’ dim;
The undo currencies she gave to my men,
The diseases which place the bones on the boards
And shifted them for rats:
The stowaways of death she complacently conscribed.
Now all there is the floating thing. Not a continent,
Not a wound to describe in detail how it happened:
The sun is a brandished yellow yes,
But that is not how it happened; She did it
Who is carrying us along slowly in a daze:
Up and down the road of someone who is guilty looking
For the brambles in the clog, steady aquamarine rain,
The carnivores of the forest to flood us and sink
Us into her skirts, where she can look down at us
And dream of us unwholesomely deeper inside her shadowed innocence.