In The Middle Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Some small reward other than
That love I wanted to win- some little prize
Printed in the ink of zygotes spilled
Out on the empty sheaths
Of notebook paper there are millions of
Them on each
Paper snowflake that wilts into the canal
As the cowboys and knights pretend
To die together, moaning in the phosphorous
Of their grand exegesis:
As a woman posing as the messiah sings through
The mosquitoes and holly boughs
Through the morning while the buses turn around,
Picking up her little sisters who are
Never mindful,
As she continues daydream of a skating rink
As if a glade in the middle of the myriad of the
Vermillion cenotaphs upon which the flies lap
And the wolves do drink.