The Ignorance Of Her Open Wounds Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Playing the game that winks to the land as my
House lays as quiet as a yellow tomb:
Like a daisy above tree line trying inhale the sun as the hikers
Pass underneath the wildfires of burning clouds;
And the regaled stags underneath the yawning circumferences of
The moon;
But it never fails to be this way- as the arcades sing like toads,
Slipping their mud pies underneath her lips to cool on
The windowsills of her eyes;
While the preternatural aspects of her carriages swing and sway
Like feral children who have made love to wolves in
The graveyard only to have gotten up again,
Supplanting the love shacks of fried chicken:
And going to where the bottle rockets have finally landed
Up against the dead Indians
Nuzzled by the well kept dogs: and there, once again, crying and
Laughing- and cursing themselves as they drink the commodities
Of free liquors that come by the open highways
That openly and freely express themselves to the ignorance of her
Open wounds.