Next Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The fruition of a
single thing
learning to duplicate itself
like the ruby spores of
a pomegranite bleed
forever.
The forest's pinioned tears
brushed by her cotton-picking
wind,
the arboreal children
that grow in
the motionless carnival
fight like statues of
Russian poets,
like the freckle-gilled fish,
forgetting something,
leap backwards up the
acrobatic rivers into
subterranean homes of melting
silver-azure,
breathing jewelries of
molecularized snow;
The undefined couplings of
fleeting virgins in
highschool metastasize
into the middle-class
stock-market adultery,
the leaping blue electricity
of migrating eyes,
the printing-press of
opposing sexes,
the zygotes of bald mammals
stampede,
as she screams the
john's name
from the open window
out thrown into the
available night,
where aeroplanes recede
its passengers the wayward
children of a millioned
silenced wounded things
dying into the next.