Robert Rorabeck Poems

In the rainstorm the trigger is cooling: The hand is
Letting off,
The barrel of the transom is smoking; something has been
Done.
...

Adding the angel bright kerosene to my heart
And stumbling through the smoky forest where the bees
Are laying with the leaves:
The boys are dark in Mexico, dark as the shadows between the
...

I like the work of minor saints,
Watch-makers:
Girls in high-school still look good to me,
Scorn me on the back lot
...

Imaging how it should echo, and then it does:
Of grandfathers and country sides-
The days lay back upon the shed wings of grasshoppers:
And yes, it goes on and on speaking to the sun in
...

If you are getting up and coming off work,
And your eyes are lamp shaded with little silhouettes
Leaping and foraging like a giant zoetrope of
A spaceship out in the desert,
...

If I am a marginalized figure, will
You write a screen play about me?
Will we then go together to the juvenile
Vineyards and run down those rows like dirty
...

What does my heart feel like now;
But it feels like a long poem wanting more the
Poisons of my muses of putrescent Janus;
Looking both ways from the doorways of these
...

Trying again, the young children yawn,
Hatching beneath the tombs- as all of the day is haunted-
But your body blooms-
Driving all day in its loneliness, and yet so
...

Positively left me underneath
The turtle
Underneath the school bus
Underneath the middle of the day-
...

If I passed away in
The ages of the sea,
Would you come
To remember me in
...