The Pretty Forts Of Her World Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Words make contact like agreeing compasses,
If they do then the unnamed flowers will grow, like from the
Fingernails of a grave,
And you can listen to her beauty sashaying in the breaths of
Sunlight,
Popping wheelies atop of each stone.
Out in the market, we must run through the citrus, our eyes on the
Bodies of far away,
While the airplanes hum and chirrup, the traffic aggrandizing
Populated by the instructors of my evaporated childhood-
Now how I have seen her eyes from time to time
Coming into the market, and even looking for things that will
Never sell:
How her lips parted like innocent clementine, even though they
Were not innocent:
Like clear bells that wimple in breathing; and her body flutters
As it goes sweetly in and out of stores,
Hoping for things of pollination, while the yellow world ripples
All around her,
As if she were a flag in a state of embarrassment and all of the
Windows looked out upon the pretty forts of her world.