Robert Rorabeck Poems

Here, I want to fall in love,
Right in the passions of the singing garden,
Rich with insects and serpents,
The very few reasons meandering through the
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There are things that I shouldn’t say,
That you shouldn’t hear,
But I want to anyways, while the Ferris Wheels are
Caesuraing perpetually into the sky,
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As if the very wildflowers were your family:
Alma, but I am still right
Here, like a rattlesnake with a sweet tooth for your
Woebegone ankles,
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As if the very wildflowers were your family:
Alma, but I am still right
Here, like a rattlesnake with a sweet tooth for your
Woebegone ankles,
...

Writing in the earliest joy,
Caracoling the old neighborhoods that never raised
Anything new,
And even made the sun seem wearied, going up and whistling
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Up into the opposites dawning their smatterings
Of mailboxes:
The lawns seemingly pressed underneath the
Christmas trees,
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Real cowboys taking siestas in the underbrush:
School buses shoplifting back and forth, vagabonding
Against the hedgerows
Who sing in little red and yellow buds that the coral
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I share my lunch with Alma:
I follow her, and finally sit down with her anywhere:
Sometimes she says she loves me,
And sometimes she isn’t sure, but her beauty reminds me
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Dangerous allegations of the supernatural
Landslides,
Going down like this, making love to pilots who
Haven’t spread their wings,
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Spindling ablutions,
The catastrophe of the weathers above the ways
Out in the make-believe of an ultimately beautiful day:
The frenzy of kites stolen away from
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