Libraries Poem by Robert Rorabeck

When it is easy, I wake up and there is a
Fog on the hills, and the stones lay sweating in
The grass,
And north there are great holes above the earth,
And she has cut her leg while washing
The baby,
Perhaps, if coupling, the animals could escape
And row into the breathless reservoir
Where those of us who are yet fully grown
Are swimming,
But before that needs to be peace made with
The other tribes, and the old houses need new glass
And families,
Where the angels coo, then for birds it is time
For dinner, and then to scavenge the brightly discarded,
To gather together and form the nest where
Their eggs will speckle,
And, incubated, the librarian wakes up from where
He has stamped his forearm in drool,
And listens to a cavalcade of raindrops, as a single
Dreary car turns about;
Finding himself alone in a mouthful of weeping voices.