The Puppet Of His Heart Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Tables at a spot in the woods
Incredibly distant from all humanity,
Yet a creation of
Man place in the wilderness.
It is not possible for an object to be
Lost from itself,
But they remain
Like wooden presents in the evergreen's
Shade,
Waiting for the palatial fingers of
Sunlight to stroke upon them
Like the pornography of the
Sky—
The airplanes like open pages
Centerfolds revealed for a little while,
Sparks of holidays
Going off in the ethereal and burning
City of the clouds—
Not one cognizant aspect reflects
Down upon them.
The creator has vanished
But there in the wilderness I have described
The puppet of his heart remains.