Even The Abyss Of The Hereafter Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Daylight troubles the mouth of the wolf
Or my mother—
And I get drunker and drunker—
It seems to last forever—
The bouquets of fireworks of my past years—
And my hearts that have had to surrender—
In this place where the real lions live—
And the poems that keep getting spread out and spread
Out like stories for a dollar underneath the overpasses—
Underneath whatever it is that is finally defeated—
Moonbeams and crossbeams
And the epaulets of wire and telekinesis—
It is not as much a shadow show as it is for puppets—
And the daylight surrenders to the kidnappings of rounded
Corners—of libraries that have shut down—and
Hallucinations that go into hibernating at the day-barks
And the ballparks while you kiss the armpits of your sister—
And the daylight—and the daylight—
And the amulets reflecting off her—if this was a stage
Then it would be filled with the echoes and the echoes of laugter
But this is not even an amusement park anymore—
And there is not even enough to pay my passage way into the abyss
Or even the abyss of the hereafter.