In The Empire Of The Sun's Playground Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Poetical devices leaping for their only god,
Hoping the darkness of the overcast blackout
That he is still there throwing bird crumbs
To the thorn bushes
Against the quietly segregated dorms I used
To deliver to in my old truck;
They don’t give a thought to failure as they come
Suckling like piglets on my fingers,
Like tapdancing soon to be mothers open bloused
On a stage for blind men,
Still hoping that she is there in the tramping crowd,
desperately certain that they will find her because
She loves them;
But she cannot even see the wayward children, the
Freakish carnival daycare that I lead around,
Affecting more scars, becoming further isolated from
The rounds of cheeky firemen:
She cannot love them when she is fully situated in his
Arms, when she can look the racing hard-edged world
In the eye and give it a good run for its money.
She has no use for such devices,
And thus they escape her, they run through her like the
Finest elements yet understood by the scientists who
Would define her by them,
Giving proof to the atheist and revealing the glinting
Epitaphs of dead explorers elbows bat winged like the
Washington Monument in the hallucinatory dunes riling
Just outside my backyard window,
Thirsty and husking in the empire of the sun’s playground.