Dreams Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Those are the littlest bits of
things, the color of God’s
Eyes too dangerous for a
Man to touch, for brought
Up to his heart
They would cause it at first to
Cry and then to bleed,
But there in the rainless gutter,
Where they lie like a stained-glass
Mural, shattered,
And no longer describable,
The heat coiling upon them
Like poisonous snakes,
As the cars drive by in schools,
In Scottsdale, AZ, those are
The littlest bits of things.