Quivering Like A Prize Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Deep in the stolen rabbits of my chest,
The day thrusts like a roman spear into the spirit of our
Lord:
The sun trumpets, a fugue of sweat, and words
Caracole of the meaninglessly forked tongues of rattlesnakes:
There in the soiled halos of the bosque,
Someone takes a bribe: and it becomes official and gossiped
About through the turn stalls of the gas stations
That I had no faith in her, her beautiful brown eyes
Quivering like a prize and the truth buried so deep in them,
Suffocated by so many lies.