Of A Yard That Only Grows More Beautiful Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Wounds in words scarred from
The thoughts of too much rum—
Brown words as dead leaves filling up
Abandoned swimming pools between my ears,
Filling up the abandoned places
Better people have left for good—
Desires that fill up the lamplight inside the
Caves of the middle class—
The very same thing that housewives sometimes
Get drunk and have sex with—
Never knowing the full latin names for
Either plants or birds,
Those beautiful caesuras of wings and hearts
That happen every day outside of their
Windows—but why no latin names
For airplanes, or the other things they
Know—and then they close the eyes,
Like terrapins inside their wigwams—
New children come and go—
Young women vanished from the day light
Of a yard that only grows more beautiful.