Robert Rorabeck Poems

What can live in this sea
When all the woods are all black, but the sky is still blue
Without even thieves, the robbers of her fretful eyes.
Where the feet in their cerulean stockings stick out like
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They stand at the sun tanning brink
When they should be sleeping:
They French-kiss in well known vocabularies:
Each on of them makes a sound in
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Cry sometime for the shy turtledove
Hiding in his shell,
And for me, if you still believe I am real.
For I have gone beyond this ancient town-
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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
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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—
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Wounded on a mountain waiting for
Inebriation—a decade of drinking at the feet of
The gods,
The rain running down like lost boys to
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Going through the motions of a work place,
Trying to make eyes with Alma:
Brown, saturnine, always cleaning: Alma:
Sometimes you look up at me and my soul tears away
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I’ve even been up in the fanfare of markets
Above the tree lines of your beauty and of your
Flea markets:
I’ve sauntered up in the mineral ways, while cursing
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Underage minors take care
To brush your teeth and comb you hair
One hundred times before you go out
For sacrifice to the dragon’s lair
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In the cooling day I stumble from,
Down from the higher basins where angels gossiping
Is drowned out by sun showers
And waterfalls,
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