The Greater Tourism's Raucous Lullabies Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Fields as dry as I don’t know,
And snakes sleeping there, underneath the toes
Of trees,
And rabbits lying there open hearted,
Calling to their sweet heart blood hounds:
The sky as blue as a melon rind thrown up there
By the best pitcher ever known
And sure not to come down until night:
Forgotten to the side of the great roadways roaring in
Their delusions,
Like brothers and sisters absolutely enamored by their
Incest:
And I want to take Alma there, to the barren folklore
Where most of humanity doesn’t exist,
Where barbed wire lays buried in the thorns and
Cow skulls,
Where gods have forgotten themselves in the hematomas
Of nocturnal footprints:
Where there is still good witchcrafts waiting for us,
And I can sleep with her in the waterless daydreams
Of arid kites
And paper airplanes stuck in the leafless crooks twisted
For the fun of no one:
And we can live for a little while far absent from the
Overpopulated and undermined cacophonies
Of the greater tourism's raucous lullabies.