Into A Place Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The forts with sticky noses looking up
Through the snowfall:
Glossy eyed and drunk- and a killer off somewhere,
But not sniffing through their keyholes:
And hoses curled up besides the fountain of youth
To which we tended to get there
As the sandstones were still steaming through the night;
And the forest was pitched:
The night cursed itself and tried to look down your blouse,
While commercials ate themselves on the radio:
While all I could think about was true love
And cold night going up the lonely slopes in the blues of
Arizona
With the wind strewn pine cones across the old Indian
Reservation:
The old wounds that we all hope to never have to cross again:
The arrow heads buried in there, into the cheap but
Freshly blown glass- and the waves curling,
Beckoning,
As if calling us all like children away from our supper
And up into a place where we could never belong.