Where The Mermaids Have Been Sleeping Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Each pinwheel burns across a new caesura:
They say this is where the mermaids have been sleeping,
Bathing in the foam underneath the pomegranate crosses:
But that the men who came to love them
Having crossed the ocean—
It is not enough: checking the window, there is no airplane:
They bathe there feral outside of school forever:
They know nothing of cul-de-sacs singing sweetly inside
Of vermillion suburbias: they only know that all of that
Has been made up:
The busses turning around pretending to believe in butterflies—
The fairies who hold clitoral orgasms in the apexes of their wings:
What do they know of business:
All of theirs is the fanfare—everywhere like pollen over the fields
Of a holiday—maybe they will even fire the poor boys tomorrow,
But, at least, they will never have to grow up—
If this is what is real: concrete, and professions, and dead ends,
Then let tomorrow be a hidden thing,
And the beautiful spirits grow in the grottos underneath the cypresses
That lactate their pollens bell tides to an ocean who knows
All of their names.