Her Folkloric Senses Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Castrations do not know my shadows—
My dog sleeps at my feet until I do not know
Anyone else:
The racehorses turn around like my father
Until this is no better news from Christmas—
And I have learned from all of the
Estuaries—
Strangest of cathedrals where no one plays football
And none of the babies sleep—
Across from the high school—or across from the
University where there is an ever busy beanstalk following
The fairytales up into the clouds—
As my make-believe wife rises from her bed of clouds,
And giving me her folkloric senses, pretends to love me
As best she can.