Of Walking In Ice Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Abutment to the stars, is this the shallow places
We ride,
High in our knickerbockers, with swords
And feathers:
I eat two hotdogs- I don’t think about you,
And my hair almost looks blond. I have an interview
To go to at three
Underneath the skyscrapers floating above the
Barge;
But if they ask me, I will have to tell them
I’ve never been to Iceland, never laid down either
In between your levies, to feel your waters rise,
The sluice and buck of each individual thigh,
But I have some ways to go- I keep the skulls
Of all the canines who were my friends tied behind me
Like sharp, grinning cenotaphs:
I will not sell them. If I have to I will break into houses
At winter, I will lay with the half eaten celebrations in
The cold, mute and pious; and only in my wet dreams
Will I howl for you,
Silly thing always pondering upon the moment of embarking
Upon your next sunny day fieldtrip,
Skipping through the bare breasted meadows and on into
Chrysalis.