The Furrows Of Mars' Serpent Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I will single you out on the battlefield,
And come against you roaring
Like a ram, caracoled, delinquent and
Never minding that he crushing through
The lilies and the Easter baskets;
And I will gather you up in a pantheism of
Sweat;
I will have a plan, while the others
Won’t know what they are doing,
And caressing you there out amidst the
Furrows of Mars’ serpent, watching our
High school of dead friends arise like unfurled
Sails,
The clouds, yes, an audience of evaporated
Gods;
I will hone you with a craft of lips,
And slip my crooked hammer around your ears,
Make you believe so many things
Until the victorious hour, when dusked,
Saturnine, and beginning to melon junoesque,
Caked in salt and lost bereavements
You lie out amidst the priests who are blessing
The otherwise dead,
The cherubic footprints of our child soon to
Awaken in you pattering
Bothering away the first chance of sated
Rest from your victorious head.