Not At All Like Sunlight Through Those Graves Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Impolite to recall what cadmium we cover
The graves with,
Pretending to pack fading names with fireworks,
Then how the clouds touched down and studied
Over our shoulders,
Grew depressed and frumpy-
How the dog got stuck between the wrought iron
Teeth and whined a little,
And then was too tired. After all, the university
Had rejected us, had finally set us free like
Prisoners after so many years,
Saying now that there was either cockleburs
Or stars in our eyes that it was wrong to keep us
And that we should go away,
Even though our cheeks were scarred and we had
Ink stains from the dress of their library
Under our quivering nails.
Here in this segregated graveyard where thimbles
Of blood ants battle for unlucky chicken bones
Through each vibrant blade,
And the damsels across the student way open their
Windows in slick young rows,
Exposing their bosoms across the humid panhandle,
Speaking words that are lost beneath the traffic.
Perhaps she loved us, I don’t know,
Under one of her perfect masks,
But there is too much sunlight playing through the
Divine emptiness for her to see us,
Even if she wasn’t looking for someone else,
And the job concerning the dead is done fore,
And time for us to drive away, I think to watch
Hummingbirds levitating across the Arizona desert,
The weight of their two cents just enough to skim the honey
From the procreative cactus,
Proving once and for all that we walk too heavy,
And are not at all like sunlight through those graves.