This Imaginary Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Every word a thimble of a tool,
I line surceases: thoughts flow
Like stains of ink,
Like posthumous shore, leaving the
Entrails of its reasoning,
Going back to sleep in a bed under the
Arc where all the animals
Are snoring;
And you are in the heavens above us all,
You are in a dream seeping down like rain that
I continually get up thirsty for:
For I am just a little boy without a class walking
Barefooted and lustily up and down
This imaginary shore.