In The Echinospis Of A Busied Dream Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Poem in the echinopsis of a busied dream—
This is all of the stuff now that the neighborhood or
Wherever is laid all out—
This is the land I believe that unicorns come from
And airplanes all of their obnoxious art:
Or this is just another way to breathe in the air of
Tomorrow—the fairies are all gone and the fairgrounds
And the goldfish under them—
This is the art half-forgotten or puffed up from the
Mailbox—into another estuary swallowing itself into the
Bluegills of its moonbeams—
Another cauldron meant to beautify the volcano
Through the pieces of its vanishing art:
Days that look like this,
Beaten around the mouth as around the breast—
Flowers that pistil into the ever present fanfares of the
Aqueducts of the blindedly sublime—this is the
Same strange arrowhead that tickles the truth through
The porticos—as the selkies of the mermaids submerge,
Coughing to themselves,
Enamored of the same corsages that forgot to remember themselves
So many ages ago—and in their gardens swim as an example,
While you looked so beautiful, as the pools glistened
And picked up on the echoes of the memories that
I guess I'll never know.