The Same Creaseless Daylight Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I write this every time and visitors they come
And laying fawn in the sun;
And the traffic is behind my head, but where are
The conquistadors and the things that they must have done:
This is the place that I was almost born,
And here is where I keep returning and blowing my little
Horns:
The girls coming out of the wind tunnels on their bicycles seem
To know me here;
They seem to be striking out and repeating their bodies
All around me like helpful flares which last for awhile
Until they grow either tired or bored,
And then they return to the countries and to the men where
They came from,
Leaving me under the same creaseless daylight but all the
Same far less assured.