The Knowledge To Make Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It is not all good, and it is getting even more dangerous
From here:
And it just keeps falling up and up like whatever moonlight it
Was upon the crenulations of her skirt:
And the traffic is as busy as ants or centipedes:
Little girls who in their days, monthly, bleeding in their little ways:
And then we go into choruses,
Or we shut up:
And the fieldtrips of mausoleums are lifted by forklifts
And dump trucks:
And the math gets funny, and the moonlight serenades: and you make
Love to him, because his muscles surrounding you make you want
To feel like a princess in her grotto:
All beefed up and surreal; and even if you were broken, well then
You were healing, and it all came down to this,
And maybe your children were feeling better, Alma: as maybe you
Have even lied down now beside you man of whatever weathers they
Were that brought you to this country.
And then to my bedroom, to an oasis, or a woebegone opera,
While the boomslangs ate our flesh, and then the pretty girls rollerskated:
And we watched them entirely agog, and at least it was I who thought
How precious it was that they didn’t even have to think of us,
While the waves repeated, crenulated and purred against the bridges
That we have come to join and walk, but which neither of us
Have made, nor have the knowledge to make.