To Yet Another World Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Pestilence in a field of joy:
Little girls sleeping with spiders of tin-
Their dogs run away with foxes:
The sea wanting in- and across them, all of the
Old wounds of mountains,
Of the old men sleeping in their wombs:
While across their bodies the shadows
Entomb,
Tattoos that float like clouds living there:
The vampires looking through the window:
Their hearts an apple orchard:
The sky filled with the jubilations of fireworks,
Pinning around, collecting the dollars
Of their wishes from the throats
Of gold fish,
Little boys coming home off the streams of their
Dying fathers
Don’t say a word, but climb back into their
Wombs like homeless turtles curling in the
The grottos
Where she cleans the laundry, and sings for them,
Her throat an underwater pearl
Returning the stolen moonlight to yet another world.