This Is A Kind Of Zoo Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I've remembered the scars—how they've
Settled into the soft light of
Still burning foyers—and how I
Can listen to my wife yet breathing beside
Me—
An unborn son softly swimming—
Soft as antelope in her belly—
And this is a kind of zoo that grows hazy
Just before Christmas—
Where, in the dim morning, even the best of
All Christians stumble—
And, biting their tongues—can sing that this
Is not Shakespeare,
But a little voice—Perhaps the littlest voice
In all of the heavens—compared to
The speed boats of our uncles—
And yet, on the lakes,
As the leaves fall in autumn all around them,
And the beautiful birds, like swans,
Begin to settle around
All of the banishing graveyards of the old people
We know so well,
There seems to be someone else playing
Upon the lips of our dying summer—
As our childhood vanishes down
A beautiful hallway—
And we awaken almost remembering all that
We cannot believe.