Like A Similacrum On The Hunt Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Like a draft of words, calling up the armies
Into the arms of loneliness, knowing this all at the start,
And folding paper snowflakes into my wounds,
Trying to forget about the ways that the dying cowboys
Had a hard time breathing
Like the salting mermaids who came up through the orchards
Calling for the boy they loved
Who himself had gone away on a bicycle through mindless
Carnivals of suburbia
Like a simulacrum on the hunt for the one or two things
That it could ever know.