What Kind Of Angels There Are Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am right here again- and here is where
I’ve been found out:
Underneath the practices of tunnels- as if
For a little while in another
World holding together its statuary without
Anymore of its candles:
Trying to find for awhile and burn for itself:
Otherwise, it has been
Dancing,
And trying to find itself own way through
The busied
Architectures: as, at last, it seems to come
Out loud and once again
Into the holidays that only my one true muse
Can know-
While, otherwise, it has been to busy trying
To find out once again for itself-
What- exactly what kind of angels there are
In the skies- and, just as likely,
I’m afraid,
What kind of resolution can there possibly
Be to this.