Like A Weapon Stealing From Its Kill Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Night of twenty-four hours in twelve months of
Holidays,
Crooning in séances, sharpened on the wet stone of
Spikenard’s epiphany;
And I can hardly even feel how the campus must have
Felt like in your amber night,
So late as to be early when the sky is so wet with
The perpetuity of the milkmen of dew that
Kites drown and kittens get stuck to their mother’s
Teats and they are too flabbergasted to mew;
And you were just coming home through the rippling fog
Dreaming of your boys like the first smoldering of
A really grand procession that heated up through the red
Bricks of your liberal minded canon;
And I searched for you, and called your name through the
Long standing drainage,
And smelled your hair like a flag strung on a caravan on the
Move;
And I got all bothered and danced for you in a great wide
Circle, like a glutinous spell, and remembered you name,
And gave it to the darkness that would not dispel,
Like curtains on a stage that refused to reveal, though I heard
You everywhere, the play of your heart
Rattling the thunder of my cannonballs, and making me
Stomp my guts through the parks and playgrounds that dripped
From your nooned shadows,
Even while your laughing body eluded me like a weapon stealing from
Its kill.