The Mouth That Accepts Her Musings Poem by Robert Rorabeck

We all have successions, and this is mine:
Another game of pinball, another word coming up breathlessly,
Losing definition:
The Mexican drives the truck home through the purple immolations,
While his ancestors gathered the architectures
For a calendar that foretold the end of time: a nubile premonition:
The pretty and un mollified musings of black girls
Down beside the river, slipping its silvery pinafores over the snags,
Losing itself into the oceans that bare its children;
That it goes home to every night, and douses its scars past the
Bare-chested hemispheres, hangs up its endeavors and tells itself
That it can do no better;
Its throat filled with tar and terrapin like a plate that moves all over
Itself;
But in its greatest night, eyes and senses closed, it is showing another
Movie, filled with truth and promises;
But never to the light will such an answer be revealed;
And so she flows steadily, mail-giving- attributing to the mouth that
Accepts her musing, but otherwise is as insignificant as so many
Things.