Crawling Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I can't even remember who I am
anymore
and it is a beautiful thing
when the lights are cut,
to move around
the vast concrete easment,
man's measurement
of God's design:
To feel the twisted glory
in our disected humanity-
Like a ghost
in its wayward park
deep in the wispy light's
suburbia
watching in their backyards
the strange middle-class
dreamers
grow up and wilt
back again the lower things
The Ages of Stick and Mud
that take on the
classifications of upwardly
mobile society
to survive off the photogenesis
of light prancing on the
lips;
There ex-lovers slip
further into the new
meaningless comforts- They
comfortably bleed themselves
Dry,
holding hands in the
powerful living rooms
and spacious coffins,
in upwardly mobile basins
where their children
swim thoughtlessly in
state-funded schools,
safely into the
shallows of their
white-collared pools.