Of Our Amen S Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I'm sorry—but she looks like she knows
That I love her,
And she is my wife—and I get up every day,
Evacuation,
Becoming the art of archeology—and the vanishing
Indians end up misconstruing and vanishing again
Into the heart of an emptied airplane:
And this, at least, is the place I have dug:
Waiting for all of the rest of the armies to finally come
Out from the jungles and fall over us:
Peace in her eyes, just like a corpse's peace—
And a bouquet in her hands but for a dead man,
As the fireworks play out in a dance hall that the angels
Once danced in—but long since have moved
Out—as the angels leap and leap about across
The uneasy ululations of a Ferris Wheel from which we've
Had a falling out and this is the all and the last of
What can be said of whatever we had to say of our amens.