The Archeology Of Our Souls Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The Archeology Of Our Souls



I do not know what it means to be
Under the tents of your world—
As I grow potbellied and overcast—
I teach school
And you changed your occupation—
You wash dishes,
As my art slits its gizzard for you—
Now there is a library of songs around
The garden of your corpse—
And I have crossed the canal into
Another world for you—
The rain is singing—
The cats are talking—
And I have gotten married because of
You—and the day drags along,
Many-hoofed—the chariots keeping us
Separated in the race,
As we try to appease our one too many gods,
Forgetting the love buried like arrowheads
In the archeology of our souls.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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