Robert Rorabeck Poems

There seems to be a song running along itself in a dark
Cul-de-sac,
While I hear noises: some of them my own,
Playing out next to the sea that is going away, spilling
...

There seems to be a song running along itself in a dark
Cul-de-sac,
While I hear noises: some of them my own,
Playing out next to the sea that is going away, spilling
...

Now I will be singing in a rodeo of empty houses:
And I don't know any other words other than these joyless places-
The places that we've picked upon themselves
And the songs that we believe in echo
...

I will put a place on my body and then
I will die—mouthing off
Eventually to the full moons of the estuaries
That eventually have to move away—
...

I want to be black in a womb of stars
In order to know the catastrophes of your falling airplanes
And womb of rattlesnakes:
And I want to know just where I cannot belong, spilling
...

I am doing a much better job underneath the airplanes
Without my father here to correct me:
What am I doing, being lit up by the careless and yet
Absolutely sure bombs—
...

Showing up as I am building to you these news songs—
Cannot you see the Ferris wheels standing
And waiting outside of your window
Crouching as a pet of inexhaustible lights
...

Down to the slow plagiarisms—after the cats get tired
Playing with their mice and visa-versa—
Down to the open mouthed mailboxes of crepuscule—
And the last tags of the fire around the dance—
...

Down to the slow plagiarisms—after the cats get tired
Playing with their mice and visa-versa—
Down to the open mouthed mailboxes of crepuscule—
And the last tags of the fire around the dance—
...

There is a diving board in your eyes—flashing, vituperative—
And you are already in the downward motion—like
The most beautiful thing: like lips blowing upon a pinwheel—
When you remember that there are things yet
...