Robert Rorabeck Poems

Alma on the steps of gold—
Fishermen with their hooks of empty hands—
This seems to be the way to
The heavens,
...

Habitation of the playgrounds while
I am asleep,
And the waves come, like ants over the
Glowing cupboards underneath the moonlight
...

I've remembered the scars—how they've
Settled into the soft light of
Still burning foyers—and how I
Can listen to my wife yet breathing beside
...

I cannot believe that you are here—but my
Arms and my legs are here,
And my wife is sleeping beside me—
And all of this must have been something of
...

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—
...