Beneath The Haunted Lights Of Man Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Horrors of character can be ascribed to nature,
And if you are eaten by wolfs,
Know that they only do this to feed their young,
And it is neither cruel nor gluttonous;
And they might howl over your bones then like some
Starry pale way post, and circle about in
A feral ritual, as they transcend, and
Pass down through such hoary valleys,
Where the dead float and whip like tattered flags of
Destroyed and scattered armies.
For, after they are gone there is no more crying,
And the only movement is from what the wind does
Through the crooks of barren trees, that which is a
Kind of an illusion, and overtime you should disappear
Entirely, spoken of no more by far away lovers,
As each wave bores into the earth, boring it through
A pinprick, as if a hole in an egg; until all these are perpetuated,
And woken up, and started over: and then the lights should
Flicker, and the doors should open, and all kinds of man
Made anew out of spittle and clay, and walking up from
The earth, from the Appalachians, as from all parts,
Go down from the forest, and from the valley, into the locis
Of civilizations, and weddings, and into supermarkets to
Buy those necessities which put more flesh onto the bone,
To fill in the hollows, the recesses, the valleys;
And gather together, forgetful, and indoors, paying no attention
To the vulpine patters, the hungry footsteps that go through
Temporarily abandoned parking lots on four legs,
Quickly and under such godless lights,
Open mouthed and fanged, but speaking not, as the wind guides
Them beneath the haunted lights of Man.