The Ashes Of Her Fingers Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Worms from the ashes of her fingers—
In the middle of the afternoon,
My wife dreams of a beautiful island,
As all of her friends slip over her gills,
Awash in the reciprocating pornographies
And guiles of a zoetrope—
She does the laundry,
She bends epitaphs to the carport—
And in the aloes, the foot prints of
Snakes—
Where the wax Indians melt—
Kidnappers slipping away into cartoons
Like stage coaches into the bible belt.