With The Shoulders Over The Gloom Poem by Robert Rorabeck

And they make love in the pieces of the forest
After the school has closed
And the graveyard has opened—
New and oiled
Are the werewolves and no one knows
Where they are going,
Back and forth
Through the bric-a-brac as through the gloom,
Taking their applesauce parcels upon their shoulders,
Trying to look high and mighty even as they
Get lost an eventually are enveloped
As envelopes are kissed by werewolves—
And now here you are somewhere,
While the fish are breeding—
And the long nights get lonely
And there is nothing left to save for ourselves—
And you condescend one more time to kiss
The shoulders over the gloom.