The Beautiful Echoes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The places seem to fit as I am dying and
My dog waits at the door, or it is just another commercial
As I lie lactating, a mineral upon the floor:
And it is not a very beautiful thing—
Languishing, commercialized—the thing
Never truly escaped from high school,
And never listening to reason—
The echo that is calling to itself out of season—
And into the finest pastures where it has to be recognized that
It made its finest mistake—
And the cars and the trains go by, listening to themselves
Disappearing without and echo—Whilst all of the finest of men
Dress themselves—peeling themselves away from
The ballrooms as from the orchards—
While the drums of the graffiti's turn frail and fade-
Isn't just the perfumed throat of the echoes which they left for
Us—and then the ballrooms glisten—turn off in spikenards
And forget-me-nots just as the tops of the mountains
Turn into the aphrodisiacs of the places we can never forget nor
Lay off-
As you are left in the maelstrom—or in the middle of the fairytale of
Your boudoir- while the canyons echo—
And the beautiful echoes ignore.