Robert Rorabeck Poems

I am feeling good, while everything else feels
Unreal, while everything else feels good and If I’m naked
On Sundays,
And this is the most south-eastern point of the continental
...

Weak children brushing down on airplanes,
Never wondering where it is that they should land,
Never understanding the concepts brushed from the
Lips of the mountains’ graces;
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Happening again through the truths of the brown
Reservoirs of your mouth,
Held back by those lips who only tell me how you
Feel when we are in perfect darkness,
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Everything looks alive on the other side of the canal:
Little boys, you are justified straight into kings;
And I cannot speak, for sometimes I am dazzled by
The pornographies that are right here,
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Distilled into Mexico, the birds quiver:
There is nothing curious about their fleece; they are done,
And hung-over- they can hear the voices of
Viscous lovers speaking all throughout the wires
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If you feel like a sliver in my side, Alma,
Where am I now,
But out of church and school, trying to put together
Better words to fool you out of his bed;
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There you are, diving in the fashion of your choices,
Each of you sharpened into a weapon or
A tool,
Feathered, and going down: you can swim to the bottom of
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The power lines stretch and fawn, as the airplanes rapture,
And sometimes it will rain
As I imagine my mother coming out of that little house in
Her even littler, bluer slip:
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It hurts that your pain is gone from my day,
While the cataracts still dive across the banishing eyes
Of cars;
The puppy moves in your lap little tears:
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I am the joy that you don’t have to feel,
Back alone with your thirsty family, don’t move a muscle:
Hear the train calling to no one;
It knows where to move;
...