Robert Rorabeck Poems

Cheeks stained with the tears of baseball
That somehow Alma cannot see:
I told her I have all of these scars in her car:
She laughed at me,
...

In the throats of pretty chords hold their notes,
As lakes hold their tears as if in bluish plates, even while
All of a sudden the incensed ripples of
Disturbing loves appear and then fish outward, skidded
...

Words are imperfect, but they hold true:
Cherry trees blossoming in the hue; and your eyes warming up
Across the lakes overfilling with the things they
Cannot hold,
...

Devoted to the cornices of tadpoles,
And this is the way we sing: the way I have been together
With the lips of female mouths,
Across the stamens of high school, and down the truancies of
...

Juvenile roses in my throat as always,
Feet kicking as they swing over a graveyard of paramours:
The light douse as if in a funeral of
Merry go rounds, and there is no need to save
...

Suns on fire; it’s what they do,
Like your children on the Merry Go Round,
Or in their yards after school:
And you told me you had two rabbits; but now you lie in the
...

Popgun séances who hear me dancing:
I am dancing, and I am right here,
Underneath the Christmases where the planes pretend
To be touching down,
...

Favors for my soul:
These are these, mountain and trees, and other things
Through the purgatory of our eaves;
And it hurts me Alma every time that you are still going home to
...

I think of you; I turn my head:
The sun is down, the world is in bed:
And all of the night is a fairytale that I cannot stomach:
The ways roll on like a ceaseless zoetrope
...

Deep into the range of good intentions
The housewives slumber still beneath the evaporated
Ceiling fans;
Eyes closed for good measure, and children shut in:
...