Robert Rorabeck Poems

The horse lays prone before its mountain:
You see they are in love, and she is praying;
Or in the least the horse is in love
And born many foals, at least four;
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I’ve never battled with the ancients,
And she kisses you and spins on you:
I don’t know what to do with this spear:
The angles of battleships are very sweet going down
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I listen to my father relieve himself in the bathroom.
Conquistadors bending down like penitent flowers
Kissing the first lips of waves,
Like nothing else you can find in a bookstore;
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Kelly kissed my neck today just like
Erin did ten years ago-
While I was done buying books and heading home;
And now I want to buy something else too:
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A field obtrudes onto dusk as my dog sleeps
Between my legs—So very soon I will be taking an airplane
Again,
So far away from the streets where your echoes sting—
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I am now your song that never sings—halfway up the
Mountain's switchbacks and gone to proposition to your
Kings—
The cold antelopes stir—they are tired of being bed ridden
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All the chambers of the heart are filled with
Roses:
And your lovely bedroom is filled with lovely poems
That wait for you to get up for breakfast
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Your secrets laugh in secret—Their gardens are fully overgrown:
The rabbits are entombed in their gardens,
The labyrinths of evaporated giants lingering across the loams:
And this is my avoidance in which I have kept an
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The streetlight's fiasco keeps to itself underneath the
Spume of wildhorses,
And this is just a relief as another day stops its echo
As a weakness—and this is a weakness,
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Finally filled up with all of the
Beautiful sounds of the winds,
Angels rest beneath the Christmas trees,
Knuckles entwined like
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