Their Iridescent Memory Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Failures of the every day and of my songs:
Box cars stuck alongside the highway
That even the tourists don’t care about- weathering,
As the forests curdle,
And my dogs with long tongues talk about
A park they’ve never been to:
As you are up there again in your sweet peninsulas
Flying kites or lactating over your children,
And the fields are wild over my dead cousins:
The poets whose hearts were too big
To live without their muses,
So the dandelions grow as rich as lilacs, and the
Butterflies come with their pornographies
To fornicate and steal away the perfumes of
Their iridescent memory.