Procession Of Weddings Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If my house wines in its own epistemologies,
So I am here,
And burning up all of my comely liquors
While the dogs lick my open palm- as if I were saltlick
And they were deer,
Until the morning comes, and in it the rodeos, and the rounds
Of those daylights
Pilferings and stuck up through the snobs of smoke signals:
While nothing else has to be concluded-
And this only has to be a classroom that was once attended and
Then abandoned like a burned down school room
Into which all the pretty bouquets are suddenly bleeding:
And so then suddenly there is her bedroom,
And little fairies and she is home safe,
As through all of those winters on the higher mounds
Her loved ones come as if in a procession of weddings-
Sound, and safely returning.