Stillborn Of An Echo Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Now I am wrong with you—
And the fairytales—
If that is what it means to be the
End of this thing—
Even as you are coalescing and making a
Small news of yourself—
Simple jellyfish whose graveyard is
At the verge of the sea:
Doesn't this seem that it has to be
Enough
Sprawled out in the parlor beneath all of
The tiny crystals—
The diamond promises of the
The chandelier—
Until, finally, you come home—underneath all
Of the nose bleeds of the mountains
And you undress
As the best of the world bleeds,
And I am reaching across the table to find
The most modern form of your love—
Until I am alone in my house,
And the ocean, or the storm starts over—
The world trying to find some reason
To survive—
And this is the stillborn of an echo—
Something I have just realized that you always knew.