Robert Rorabeck Poems

Echoing- echoing, the bones are young
Filled with yellowed specters, like song birds who saw
It all
And were turned away- down from the yellow sun,
...

Even the rain clouds have shoulder blades.
They flex and sweat over the city of simulacrum
Who draw the pictures on the streets of
The latchkey children who also live there
...

Shallow wounds, I know you are here, and I know
I cannot win- cadaver with a bouquet of roses, you will
Go home and home and home to
Him,
...

Again elevating, making love before a beach:
Levitating for helicopters who come primary colors
Before they excavate the swing-sets of
My childhood- the very amusements my mother pushed me
...

Once again from the Pacific Theatre,
You went home from school-
In the Phoenix desert, summarily dusted by
Haboobs-
...

Religion in my senses- euphoria of a dog
Who is not here-
Probably the very thing that loves me greatest
Upon the earth,
...

I am holding my head against
A cathedral- or a marionette: it is as brilliant
As a Christmas tree
Come home to no particular holiday: then it
...

Then it feels alright: the stars in their cathedral
And the night coming down through its curtains
Loving what it does,
Becoming married again across the deserts
...

Crippling luminosity make its aurora along the
Long trunk of a lustrous snake as
It goes up a mountain for a drink:
How long will she be its cradle,
...

Going up and up into the world
Only an hour after you have awakened,
With your wings spread
And the sunlight feeling so good and filled
...