Nothing Human Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The pine trees had a crowded soul,
They made a chorus in the salty wind, or they
Wined like wounded hounds as the conquistadors
Tromped within their needled cradle;
They placed crosses of forgetful stone about their
Knees; or they fell asleep quilled into séances
By the lovely feathered shafts of eerie natives
Who disappeared, the vermilion iguanas hissed and curled and,
Cold blooded, waited naked in the shallow pools
Of limestone. An empty amusement park waiting
For the adolescent band, the little boys and girls
Out playing rented instruments out in the immeasurable
Wilderness. They will play games and make love, until
The sport transcends to marriage of cannibalisms:
The forest loses faith into a suburbia, turns cold and wrapped
In copper gallants. Street lights mote the stars, fiddling them
Into blindness, and the cars are busy foraging upon the misspelled
Tombs. Now they are married and going to town, the
Cypress wear garland and the grass is mowed. Beautiful and
Rented, the trees persist like monks asleep, like velveteen cocoons.
Who knows what better language they will sing once again
Nothing human is at home.