The Grave Of An Anonymous Poem by Robert Rorabeck

How goes the day in its boiling summits
As airplanes turn up from the ground, exhumed from
The bilious cages of
Ants and the baseball diamonds of ant lions:
Shooting across the stage like bottle rockets from a penny’s
Cleft,
As all of the girls of the girls sit at all of the astonishment:
Astonished,
Or they wait for the racehorses who have sunken like
Granny smith apples to be
Exhumed from the waves, and animated in the sad avenues
Of carefully planted trees
Who are forever in their astounding cathedrals along
The highways-
And they go, while the tourists go: both of them exhibiting
Similar wonderments of motion,
As the waves crack their knuckles against the shore,
And the nameless rose grows over the grave of an
Anonymous whore.