The Adventures Of Cadavers Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I have a new magic such as Ajax.
Look at me shouldering the words of playboys-
I am not struggling-
I get along better when I am not breathing,
when the playboys that I knew for awhile
have come down from either of their clouds
and are looking soft and ethereal
in the movie theatres abandoned of their clouds-

it is a planet, affixed in wax-
the better children huffing their better ethers
paying their better taxes-
but I still have to look up and into your eyes-

Fox, vixen, who are not real,
turning the tomboy into the jack rabbits of your
brambles-

Families that grow up kidnapped, the apex of
our love letters only awaken for a brevity of an awhile,
and then it is done:
the fireworks are spent,
the tents are taken down,
and the lovers are left
to remember the remnants of their families-

cenotaphs of days taken off at the elbows,
unemployed at the apertures of ever wave-

and I am spent without a thought-
and even the living neighborhoods are made to haunt-

beautiful for awhile, the words in their mothy wardrobes
are left the take on the adventures of cadavers-

but the underbellies of airplanes are soft and waxen-
and even as I have fallen, they are leaping,
and leaping forever.