The Grasses Of Those Backyards Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I'll half remember you,
Placed like an insincere crucifix
Between the caesuras of
A butterfly's wings—something truly
Gaudy, if not utterly beautiful,
The housewives ignoring you as they
Drive home,
But the horses remembering you—
How you fed their senses with your tiny
Brown body struggling home
Through the houses, like the seas who
Have no name nor any heavens,
Just the tiny lights off all of their
Doors—gathered together sufficient
For a church or a graveyard—
But you never lay in the grasses of those
Backyards—nor do you look up at the stars.