The Graveyards Of The Dust Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Post-script to the sadness of the interstate
And the affair.
I saw you go both ways but neither with
The words for us—
As the sun fled like a doe over the
Lactating estuaries of a Disney World
That isn’t real—
That is tinfoil and show-boats—
But the ether—
The ether is there—and star dust
And tinker bell,
Taking off her work clothes—
Laying down in the brown mud baths
Of her skin—
And her reality unfolds with her
Eyes closed—
I went over the tracks to find her:
I went over every day until even my dog left
Me behind—
And then I went to China,
Ambivalent—
And she called once with so few words
They failed to advertise the beauty of her
Kidnapped raiment—
Catching me up like a frog, and turning
Me into many things—
Each with a space full of flowers cut amidst
The highways that flow into
The graveyards of the dust
Of each of us.