The Accords Of Our Hollowed Earth Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Juvenile roses in my throat as always,
Feet kicking as they swing over a graveyard of paramours:
The light douse as if in a funeral of
Merry go rounds, and there is no need to save
My little sister, for she has bested me:
She has sewn her own wedding gown in her sleep,
While the lighthouse twinkled the brail of its crippled though
Fairyland deep;
And I meant to spill all of my wishes into your at once,
Alma:
I meant to give you all of the gifts that sleep in my body
Waiting for you,
But I get as nervous as something feral waiting for you to
Abandon its meal;
I want to love you by so many ways, even though the sun
Hurts my eyes,
And I am not making enough money for you to
Truly remember me; but I have bought you bouquets and I
Have eaten lunch with you in your car;
And I have made you say to me that you love me, which is like
Leaping up to caress an impossible star:
But now your children need you again: your children are waking
Up again,
And I love them as I love you, as their bones stretch like ribbons
Underneath the hungry billboards which mouthlessly speak
To the accords of our hollowed earth.