Into The Next World Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Busied in the tomb
As papered airplanes flew, burning, looking up
Through the maelstrom,
Heavily scarred- deaf to the hierarchies of whatever they
Though about,
Even burning as they touched down, pin wheeling without
A thought,
Conquistadors on a throw, or another way to liven up:
Ancient harpies up in the sky,
But what are they doing:
Burning,
Burning- red apples thrown to the plagiarisms of the
Ants:
And all of my scars: and all of my scars buried beneath the
Orchards,
Buried beneath all of this, while my paper soul burns
Through its semiprecious elements: burns, thrown across
The lips of the canal,
Tossed across the bosoms of my brown
Alma, leaping like a bullet shot horse without a care into the
Next world.