Before She Touches Down Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Before She Touches Down



Sybil in her wreath of cones: I don’t even know what
She is,
But I pray to her in the little square of jungle kitty-cornered
To the fire hydrant,
Where the infants sleep underneath the rubber bands of her
Swings,
When they are in the mood; and the slash pine colonnade
And gather the bed of hushed brown needles
Where there are no more lions, and from whose room all of
The alligators have crawled back underneath the
Ceiling fans of orchids
Turning with the pirouettes of their molestations;
And I collapse here, and grieve for her,
Removed for my bicycle, my feet the balderdash of
Hyperventilating butterflies:
And the figures in the sky of a movie theatre revolving with
The reasons of a beloved silhouetted by the moon;
And I don’t even know who she is, or how long it must be
Before she touches down.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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