The Biways Of Erin's Throne Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Exacting into nothing, so we all can now believe:
The hedgerows of the brush-rows:
The heavy eyeliners by which we shall oh so grieve;
And it all ends up in words basking in the gutters
Beside the utters
Of the woe be gone puppies; and anything else that has gone
By beside my childhood like the burning catapults of
Whatever conquistadors whose helmets cut a crossways
Besides the childhood gutters like rainbows licking
The byways of the pornographies;
And I broke my jaw at four years old, and I am not alone:
But I am alone: Alone, while the fishes peal,
Across the byways of Erin’s throne:
And now I have not loved you, but I am real;
And all of those yesterdays bloom so brightly like the
Heady rooms that I was never supposed to feel.