Sadness In The Wound Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Sadness in the wound cries the lightest Pieta
From the armpit of the carport
Where your mother does the wash,
Or you know who you are—
After Christmas, look up at the stars
In the midnights where the drunken pigeons
Crawl with the fairies and some other words—
Until well after the world gets dark,
And there are no other names for it,
Down in the deepest darkness of the knocked out
Throats—Well, these words seem to be yours,
But I know you don't know
Whose they really are.