Like A Beautiful Disease Of Butterflies Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Alone into the echoes you could not enjoy
Giving yourself the pushup completion for the empty fans
Who have no recollection of the ghosts evaporating from
The baseball diamonds,
While you were too busy calling up the numbers from
The graveyards of the plastic flowers:
But somehow all of the seahorses seemed to be able to
Resolve the problem—
And so she filled herself up in the memories of the sunlight
Of the movie theatres,
And into the beautiful gestures in the sidelines and the pews
After the penultimate numbers matriculated into
All of their mazes and all of their labyrinths—
And she came home alone—vested in the fantasies of
Her stagecraft:
Her children as brown as embers—while other emotions gave
Up on the spotlight of fireworks on the other side
Of the world—
And all of it turned, and turned—until there was no single
Memory—and it became ultimately a sideshow
The divested itself of all of its corsages—until it was inevitably
Responsible for nothing—and still it believes
In the constructions of the hemispheres that held no believes
In daylight—and turned itself into a priceless sculpture held for
The briefest of nothing without the moon glowing beside
Or next to the river of nothing—
And all of the astronauts sat next to the Mississippi and kept
Their breakfasts to nothing—
Like a beautiful disease of butterflies—even though there
Was not enough shows to cover the same theatres that they kept
To hold over—like playgrounds lit by candlelight upon the other side
Of the moon.