For What Was Happening Here Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Snow-cone underneath the slush of the mountain:
Whatever will they paint you with the colors of
My tears—
And will you remember me tomorrow in your ballrooms
Beneath the lactates of the stalactites
Drooling their jaws down from all of the pitiful cities
Of the blind men while I get drunk
And sit on my corner in the city block and scribble
By poems like the outlines of the graveyards of
Chalk:
And as soon as my very new wife gets here—the first:
The very first place I want to visit is Bellefontaine
Cemetery in northern Saint Louis
Because this is where I almost got my doctorate
There:
And the other delusions of mortal man sweltering:
But that is also where Sara Teasdale lies buried and
Un accosted—and maybe we will move underneath her
Memory forever and un accosted—and maybe you
Do not remember the moonlight under which
She remains a luminous wave caught into the nets of
The bivouac without fear— and the poet only remembering
Her as the muse underneath the transgressions of
The peacock that were already on fire—until it spilled over
And over: barrels of liquor and rum on fire
Into a labyrinth of preschool that all of my peers tended to
Prescribe as the only rational explanation for what
Was happening here…..