The Suicides Of The Sun Poem by Robert Rorabeck

We sell fireworks and then by the same open wounds
We drive home,
Having to look at ourselves in the dirty mirrors—
We go the same way as
Vanishing angels,
Crawling back in to viaducts as if they were bouquets—
And other words tossed out to her
Like chicken feed while she wasn’t home:
Hypnotized by the wizard which made her dance off
The cliff the same way a dozen times,
Taking the same direction the cars swerved—
So by the very telltale signs of night
The same way as the werewolves find their
Victims as the pretty flowers
Create the perfumes of the midnight neighborhoods:
By these shadows come,
Puppets and foxes speaking in tongues,
And other developments only described by the
Grapevines of the vixens of the afterlives—
While I loved you in the shadows,
Sucking my thumb—
Wanting to find a way out of the labyrinths, the catastrophes
Of your mother—
While the helium balloons found their own ways towards
The suicides of the sun.