In The Womb Of Erstwhile Conclusions Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The tenements starving underneath the hoof-prints of
Angels—and he comes home to you, brown-skinned—apiary
And you make love for fewer than five minutes—
And when you go to sleep you become all of my heavens,
Like a cemetery on fire islands—and words that go together
When there is nothing else at home— just as a turtle
Cannot reach a doorknob, or a playwright who is being
Pierced through the eye—and so many nights come leaping
Down through the Aristotelian Spheres while I cannot figure out
Anything else that is even remotely beautiful to say—
There once was I time where I didn't seem to know you,
And as the seasons seem to go around perpetually
Famishing forever—like enamored Ferris wheels making an
End to their own midways—underneath the savage heavens
Where all the gods we've abandoned can never even
Spell—it all seems to be coming back around—
And sleep in the womb of erstwhile conclusions that I am never
Sure that we can even spell.