Blessed At By Fireworks Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Repeated as the day consumes- wildfires trying to
Kiss hot air balloons:
Words on an uneasy stage, unicorns overused:
My parents on the highest parapets being kissed at by
The incarcerated waves,
And every day is beautiful for the beautiful slaves:
Wounded, but charging up the hill-
The beautiful boys will go to fight one last time:
They will go to fight whomever they will,
Until the ticket booth is even closed, and the even shows
Its evening shows,
And ticks off its monarchs into the west, passing from
Our America, being blessed at by fireworks,
And being drowned again into a Spanish forest-
Sunken like leaves in coital metamorphosis- what do these
Fine acolytes say as they talk to themselves:
What do their little minds rehearse for a lifetime of a day:
Being tossed to the arboreal gutter like paper corsages:
Never going to taste the lips of her prom,
But savaged there, made to court in the dusk, shadows-
As beautiful as the illusions of roses to the dead prostitutes
Anonymous beneath the old fort for tourists- they lay;
The waves rush an anarchy- their bouquets an illusion of
Bones eaten by wingless horses,
While the tourist can only rise up and think about in their
Ungodly cathedrals of what they must be having for breakfast.