Crying From The Butchered Mythologies Poem by Robert Rorabeck

How the waves are tired now—
I cannot rightly describe their lull,
How they go like this, smothered,
Like lovers into a full-moon threnody;
And there are cars far beneath them,
And lonely young girls with freckles
And bangs on simulating swings,
House wives too—and what are they doing:
I shouldn’t say,
When I am nothing to them and all
Seems to be coming around—
They are taken under,
Taken down beautifully like cut flowers
Carefully arranged
Without corners, smoothed into the
Interior decorations of a suburban
Cenotaph when I do not have the
Beauty they might appreciate to resurrect
Them, the divinity they might have found
If they chose to surface and breath,
If they came up in the morning, burnished,
Exposed, picked up like sand dollars by
The careworn hands of heartbroken bachelors
Who once shared the twilight beds with them,
Who saw them lying there in the shallows,
Waverly, the ignis fatuus that came to them
Crying from the butchered mythologies and
Barely let them live.