In Your Eager Graveyards Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Over the four shoulders,
Of the monuments at the end of highways:
The soft ways the birds sing—
Echoing in castanets of blue-gilled canyons:
The cars drive as if charioteers,
And the days long with the shadows of
Puppeteers and grandfathers,
But I am going home now,
Following the wet caresses as the entrails
Of tears of words—
As I saw you as if from the elbow of a passing
Airplane,
Taking a shower, a little debutant in your
Haunts and aloes:
I thought I had loved you,
As the reasons sped away, and the high schools
Laid barren as if on the weekends;
And you lay with him,
Caressing in your eager graveyards.