Back Into The Graves Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It pains me to say this,
But I am done: a morgue of ancestors- a morgue of
Come,
And words that fill up the pockets of a superfluous midway:
And pretty verbs who sell themselves throughout the day-
And pretty things:
And things that linger through the green tatters of a
Anyways:
While bodies in the shallow waters pray-
And take account of themselves: these same shapes casting their
Shadows equally,
Unperturbed- luxuriating in their vessels anyways,
Riding their bicycles across the blood vessels of their forts:
While the cenotaphs lay spreading arms
In the waves: and the conquistadors muscle- and the children
Return to their graves-
And she wears her gold again, while the mockingbirds
Proclaim to the old recording over the supplanted swing sets,
While the flea markets make love over the waves:
And Alma turns her conscience away: fleeting like a song bird
Who doesn’t get paid:
And the night warms its perfumes of off colored sacrifices
Telling of their bemusements straight away-
And right again back into the graves.