Robert Rorabeck Poems

Going up and up into the world
Only an hour after you have awakened,
With your wings spread
And the sunlight feeling so good and filled
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In blue napalm wakes up singing to the pueblos
Until the wreckless butterflies are nearer,
And I have no more songs outside of the shopping
Malls of Walmart:
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Lost in the waves of busses,
And now she is pregnant and the most likely
Parable- well, words anyway:
And she flows through graveyards like the
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Marmoset underneath the mountain,
Taking shelter in the rain- how pretty you look
When no one else is at home,
Underneath the empty house- the evergreens
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Religion in my senses- euphoria of a dog
Who is not here-
Probably the very thing that loves me greatest
Upon the earth,
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I am holding my head against
A cathedral- or a marionette: it is as brilliant
As a Christmas tree
Come home to no particular holiday: then it
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Subterfuge of romance, because what other sort
Of subterfuge is there: all at once running away from war,
Running into France,
Looking at her gondola underneath all of those soft lights of
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Days building up their games in quiet rooms
On the tired green carpet where I’ve had at myself,
Almost leaving trails like slime,
My overbite the little indentation of the beak of
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Housewives like naves,
Like low strung truants sleeping in their backyards
Of days,
Strung out and as drooling as mastiffs on the pretty
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Pall bearers of smoke charms running at a
Distance,
Through the seems and tresses of the pool-yards
And landfills of
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