Like A Primite Weapon Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Lights in the places around me,
Places across the street
I have never been to,
Like a dog or a cricket in its yard,
A thing you can never be too sure of:
If it knows the language of your
Generous hand,
Or if it still goes around looking for something
To feed off of:
And I will finally have my peace,
And lay out into the canal,
So angelically for want of a better word
As to captivate all of the water moccasins to
Send them sprouting like an army of
Dark Mohammedans
To the pallid green shore of my exegisis,
My silent and lonely event,
To let their black bodies come and caracole all
Over my baptism,
And cover me with the pecks of fresh poison,
Better than the love you never thought to
Spend from
Lips or eyes,
Or that hairy arrow you keep well drawn between
You shopping basket legs
As you tremulate down the street like a primitive weapon
Taught and drawn.