Indications Of A Lost Game Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Indications of a lost game, and of Indian slaughter:
The moonbeams seem to rush over the chassis of the simulacrum,
As their hoods take on the aspects of a French wilderness:
And the trappers beckon hoping to snag the pony tails of
Their prized fables;
As the angels go down like photosynthetic bric-a-brac, showing each
Other their diseases, and falling for inspection inside the
Beautifully narrow grottos of canoes
Where they make it past all of the slaves, belly pregnant from
Witchcraft and stolen watermelon:
Going down this way to the unexpected falls, like the murderous
Curtains of another lover’s dream, disentangling from all of the
Claptrap of honeymoon that they were not invited to:
And the scene widens, becomes obese and monolithic,
So they take on the homeopathic aspects of the superfluous,
Until they stop falling entirely and seem to float up again
For a littlest while, as if trapped in the ecstatic gravity
Of another heavenly body moving full on the approach over
The luminous tribes, all centipedal from the many sexy legs of
All the woe begotten stewardesses that he has kidnapped into his
Employ.