So That They Can Start Making Love Poem by Robert Rorabeck

This is a tomb they put into print around the
Clandestine houses where the oldest of the living people
Remain-
Charred up, speaking to the shadows, as the airplanes
Bask like hounds across the East Basket of their
Cerulean universe
Their machines know just that this is real, that her children
Remain at home,
Cooed to the television, her mother Rosa cooking in the
Kitchen, the night growing outside perfected by the things
That can still be seen,
And she is driving home to them- out of another world,
And into a finer thing- the grass at her feet filled with still
Milking rabbits,
And when she gets out she finds diamonds whose
Fortunate wealth sings all the time in her ear, drowning out
The death of flowers,
Even when her young man tells her that she should come
In so that they can start making love.