The Last Of Any While Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Wounded anonymity can find a spot
To lie down beside the fire,
And think of things less wickedly in which to conspire:
All considering the ways
For the achievement to become,
There will be warm fires beneath the mountains
And less wickedness for in the transformations of
Everyday life to lesser become:
We can move out of the pinafores of the waves—
I have already thought of you now so openly as
To resurrect you sincerely from you graves,
And they gave their truths to their pigeon holes and
To the mountain lions but not so many times so that
We had to explain ourselves as the waves
caracoled over the opening graphs:
It is the last memory of high school that we shall ever
Have, and the waves increase as to enter our wounds
Like penny holding saints surceasing into the holds
of our arcades for the last of any whiles—
As the ancient and bicycling pines stare up at
The moon—this perpetual and hypnotic,
The last of any while