The Angels Sing And She Echoes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

What ghosts say in jail on
The island the waves manipulate if the ocean
Were a gramophone
Of wet tulips with leaping areolas:
All about the silver of
Graveyards and airplanes- strange magic
Of wet paint,
As the children stare up to their mother,
Holding her and going somewhere
While the sky wrecks in the middle of
A forest,
In the middle of a river- then there is a just
A sound over her shoulder, anyway,
And they are too small or too frighten to
See what it is:
And the dog bites, and the bee stings,
And the angels sing, and she echoes.