Incurable Gallery Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Incurable Gallery



In this night the subtle stabs impermanence:
Her lips down open,
They wear blue foreboding:
In the morning, they may speak whispers to inspectors:
They will tell all they know
How they saw the old artists in the theatres
All the sad men with gummy eyes and loose skin,
She will tell how they put on to her,
Their forms of jealous beauty,
They cremated her in sanctity-
In the graves that will not heal,
Upon the tan anthills feasting,
The dandy sun, the boys at sport:
Her ankle in their hands,
The octave of bones the sea makes.
Then her lips will lie closed,
For they have done them in,
The futile epitaphs,
As her legs provide the hungering strangers,
Loping in the school yards,
Curling with the bells which bring them in,
Clanking in the churchyards,
The names of twins at playing,
Then to lay discarding and sweating
Upon the summit of the fingertips,
The sunlight rolls down falling.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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