The Burning Light Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The Burning Light



Abusing themselves by the other planets at their
Games,
The conquistadors falling down the hills like mumbling ants,
And nothing that was sure footed is any longer:
But the kites come down easily like strayed pets
Who no longer feel her feral promise,
The way bees sometimes feel the awful jubilance of spring
Far beneath the armpits of airplanes,
Where the paper delicate flowers are airing their lingerie,
And waiting for the soiree of a good time;
And where the biplanes of angels come, clocking the earth,
As if counting the traffics of her choreographed waves
That are out in the open like some kind of fire, as the blades
Of grass are another kind of fire
Curling up to the sandy wells of terrapins and aquiline snails,
Trying to make their rudeness known up to the doors of
The courting girls who have all gone inside
Expecting the rain, stroking their glorious hairs time and
Time again
In the burning light of the kerosene.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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