Like Cormerants In Luxuriant Hell Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Black men sleek and creaking through the woods-
Twelve percent white men because their old masters
Were up to no good-
Maybe a little native American according to their
Taboo, but that is lucky toothed rubbish-
And today we sell gardens on the carport of fifes,
Older young men and young older wifes:
And the sky, why wasn’t it just the witch’s sacrificial
Knife: and yards and yards of cystic clouds,
And young born strangers richly accorded: We sold
Them an entire garden we wish we could have afforded:
And I jogged alone at night beside the canal;
And in Arizona my puppies howl- but our harpoons
Found the angels and dragged them purple hearted into
Our balmy garden sale; yeah, like cormorants in luxuriant hell.