The Happenstances Of Our Gods Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Crying the words that arc like angels birthing their young into
The kitchens and bathtubs,
And doesn’t even seem to be real, or even almost possible:
While all of the traffics drive insouciantly, and the missions sit in the
Glows of candelabrums,
And the orchards grow fat with the globes and conjunctions:
I like when I can smell you, Alma, or when once or twice
I get the words right: it is almost like being beautiful again, or getting
Along with my apposing brother:
Then I grow wings and float like daydreams over the parks and rodeos:
Then I can look up the skirts of Ferris wheels and everything feels
Alright, and I can win,
Or at least I can come back to you and lie and bask against your brown
Skin,
And then we can take your children to the movies, while the kites whisper
In the wind:
And I can write empty novels that fill up the brown vases of your neck,
Or I can just whisper silently to your eyes that seem to love me only
For awhile and only when the happen over the overthrown forts
Full of fireworks,
When they are casting and sewing their memories so far away from the
Sunday schools which happen to be all of the happenstances of our
Gods.