Robert Rorabeck Poems

It isn't a joke, the tearing apart of a
Womb—
The way the blind men commit suicide
Underneath the sunlight of
...

While Plutarch thought of the angels of
A spell,
I thought for a while, while he thought of
Her—
...

The same architects
Hang upon your shoulders as
Upon the bells of
Churches—
...

And the plywood
Shoulders
Extrapolated from
The lungs of
...

This seemed to be the day
They kept talking to me about—
Without eyes—without a television
The tourists and
...

It feels good to be in the weather
As long as there are so many houses
To return home to—
The truth in the daylight in the sky—
...

There is the mother
Carousing in her grotto—
There is the place filled
With so many
...

Memories for a little while
Look like words,
Letters curled up for her in séances
While my dog gets drunk with
...

With the sun drifting towards my sisters
And the cars parking,
The heads of mammals laying down—
Even the truck stops sleeping,
...

Back home again in between the shallowest for-get-me-
Knots—My girlfriend doesn't call—
It is only a recording—Doesn't she know who she loves,
While the same shadows beckon back and
...