The Windows Of Concrete Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Returning to the purple ness at the end of the show-
At the noose of the cul-de-sac,
Into that beautiful teardropp that is turning around to
Reintroduce the eye-
As the alligator watches, as the canoes slow step:
Across the soft shells, and the blue gills,
The sugar cane is burning where you cannot go,
Not because you cannot get there, but because you
Think it is impossible- and there are no
More windmills to keep turning on unfathomable
Hills-
Or the Indians beneath them, sloshing gin-
Beside pregnant coyotes- where the sky is all white
And dead, and the airplanes fly through the shrouds
Like ghosts changing clothes;
And you go down, but it is impossible to remember the
Last breath you made, the angels hiding behind
The windows of concrete,
The estuaries devoid of still beating hearts, or
Anything that can move.