Regular Lines Delivered Fresh Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Getting ready to go to the dump,
The sun is itching on the glass, and all that
Cornucopia that poetry might be is
Spilled out onto the wildflower fields in
The high basin. Here, its so easy to believe in
Angels, and tourists stop to watch our
Standard bred horses from afar, so they
Cannot smell them as they mow the yard.
To reproduce the infinite is to spring from
The graveyard, but leaping is made impossible
By the pounds of grubby earth, or the lack of
Stanzas, and the distance of friends and ancient
Teachers. Nothing sells that isn’t perishable,
So such a line should be engraved in stone,
Each thought is smooth and feral and sleeps
Beneath the house picking bones; and we leave
Them going down dirt roads to relatives who
We never visit, and the dusk lays heavily on the
Eyes who look far out upon the yard and the
Croaking sombulence, filled up with secrets
So regularly, that people have stopped noticing,
And yet still might enjoy the regular visits
Of the pizza delivery boy.