Most Sincere Coats Of Early Morning Graveyards Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I still rise up from the wildflowers in their
Make believe graveyards, and I am still burning:
My legs may be still be warm on the trunks
Of the graveyard of your fairytales,
And the daylight looms like the bright trunks of
Pixie tales,
And all of the bright fairies still come out of the eyes
Of jack o’ lanterns which bloom in the
Crepuscule,
The crepuscule of junkyards and I want to touch myself
To the blooming Bellefontaine’s of the Blackman’s
Junkyards-
And I am all stretched and young like the placebo of
Indian corn,
And the police are circling themselves, circling themselves
In junkyards, And what is Kelly doing but
Touching herself, touching herself to the yardarms of
Mismanaged accoutrements;
And the day is still young and still special and I am yet
Done touching myself,
And my house still yet sit alone, and I imagine my dogs,
And I want to pet their coats again before they have to
Go down again ventrilicating once more into their
Most sincere coats of early morning graveyards.