Lack Poem by Robert Rorabeck

All the quiet people move
In ways like weathered trees,
Or stricken, ant-conquered birds-
Like sleeping cats they move,
Just glinting from the hollows and basins
Which have long since been pummeled by
Unorganized comets and cooled,
And the world folds over them like
Finished greening pages

And the hands finally lay off of them
And resign to other work.

I stood watching my lover cast out
Over the perfect lake,
But I turned and awoke before
She might see.