Lake Tahoe Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Sorrow is the next word in the bouquet-
Heart wounded without
Reason in the streets of the mortal ling
Grey:
Then you saw us as the exhibit
On the granite of the stone,
Like the dog starving through the weathercock
To fetch
Himself the bone:
And abounding, thunderheads perpetuating the
Thirst of windmills all across
The unmentionable crop:
It is how we happen here, faceless looking
Down into the indescribability of
Lake Tahoe,
Hoping that our clock will stop- but it doesn’t
And the crow sings
(how can she do that) - how can she
Describe the unmentionable to the already mentioned
Kings?