Oceans Of The Grave Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Satellites in their fields
Waiting out the fire drills; but little girls who go out
Into them
Sometimes don’t return: lips exhausted from blowing
Glass
And birthday candles, wandered into the woods
To see
The incest and the amnesias of the dragon of
Mars-
Entire kingdoms and swing sets in those woods, and
Doorways to other houses,
That look so much like ours:
Candles on the dunes, in the symmetry of yards that
Stretch out to our neighbors
Delineating what is ours- children who knew our
Elbows,
And the fragrances of our car ports, passing away:
Pricked into sleep,
Exhausted into day- while the sunlight yearns a Ferris Wheel,
And tumbling of oily make-believe-
Migrating through the static foray-
A parade of illusion, oceans of the grave.