The Dying Eyelid Of Cain's Unfortunate Brother Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I figured I should call you
Before I started drinking again.

Because you don’t answer,
I started without you
Since last night I had a vision
In which the planes were falling,
Again, a kind of religious silver rain.
And you became the lucky number
That slipped from the pant’s pocket
Of my childhood while incest was
Dug up behind the tomato vines
And all the flesh and bones bathed
In the hot south Florida sunlight
As the trailer with the holes in the
Floor was locked tightly before they
Began the raid on the immigrant workers.

They are advertising human sacrifice
On the billboards down Military Trail,
As people pass on from high-school
Forgetting such detritus as their locker
Numbers and first loves,
The way the shadows pooled under
The overgrown hollies in the early morning
Beside the bus-stop as the mist rose up
And the lions roared down the street.

And driving with ex-relatives barking
At the side of my face only to recede into
The hills where the snow is quickly melting,
The world turns old and further away
From the life gained from the sun
From which the old god walks away,
Leaving his destroyed garden to his bastards sons
Who perpetuate themselves through
Our sick games played out between the
Battlefields of eyes upon which even
The fly experiences strangulation on the
Dying eyelid of Cain’s unfortunate brother.