Blind As The Music From The Holidays Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Blind As The Music From The Holidays



What do katydids do when they whistle in the
Grass,
Naked and anew and metamorphosed as the airplanes
Fly past:
I have not learned the words for what they do—
I fold paper airplanes and light of
Roman candles and wait for you:
The traffic sounds just as distant as the lions yawning,
As the traffic enfolds suburbia,
As the sun goes to rest—
All day long, truant, hapless—a terrible infant lost
In his canoe—
I have tried calling to towards me—down from
The mountains—diminutive crescendo
Above tree line—
Where the stones speak of angels—
And the gods step in their nudity—
All throughout my childhood, I have wanted you down
From there—
Tried to figure you in my neighborhood—
Tried picturing you in my mother's naked aspects—
And sometimes when it rained,
Even pictured you inside the hallucinatory confines
Of a car—taking off your clothes to get warm,
Lying in a bed of foxes and reindeer—
Your eyes as blind as the music from the holidays that
Cannot hear.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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