Robert Rorabeck Poems

Another one of these nights,
These things that repeat with the palpitating hearts
Of the polar sexes,
Who are in so many ways alike,
...

Filling a coffin with rum—making a sea of the graveyard:
And I remember in the middle of my thirty
Years, skipping work and playing hookie with you in
A hotel:
...

They made room for us in
The beehive.
We're the busy French girls.
We're taking off our clothes
...

So many ways of crying home: waxy of bosom—
Making the foxes foam:
And the will follow you just as long as there is
Day left in high school:
...

At the bottom of the stairs,
An estuary where you can look up and see
The billboards of your souls:
Things that can be sold to survive—
...

Sun bathes the unicorn
And I write poems
And drink rum:
I write poems and
...

Burn my soul in a hole—in a hole as deep as a bucket—
As a bucket waking up on Sundays—
And teach me—teach me to rhyme and sing like a king—
Like a king come Tuesday—
...

And if I were dancing drunkenly
South of Spain,
Would you catch me in the New Years of that
Country and across
...

Words huffed from a quiet man’s body,
Like cloudbanks in their syllables, come easier, like
Love,
With liquor, but now I fear I should not drink unless
...

Airplanes make ribbons—yes, they do for
Lonely girls,
And I almost forgot that I left you here:
I do not suppose you remember me—
...