Beneath The Footpaths Of The Mowed And Chiming Grass Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Gunfighters and dancers not knowing who they
Are,
And I kissed Alma inside of her car, while all of the graveyard
Waited,
And waited, because that is what we finally are:
Not giving a damn about the institutions of learning, or
Of the green bordellos,
And the colors of lovers who bleed like first graders practicing
Letters over the lines,
Spindling and sweating and making a mess:
What is left is the dimmest brightest things of us, who keep
In touch with the ghosts of stars:
And grow at the ends like glass blowing cenotaphs,
Who flute for the winds, and curl and succor and call
Out for seconds beneath the footpaths of the mowed and chiming
Grass.