The Ash Of His Cave Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Imperfect, so it is here:
Another night outside of the trailer park,
Looking down at the moon’s
Salty reflection from my arc: the pools
Of your love shimmering from the
Prim windows;
And even if you don’t know- Then there is
Your daughter,
In a castanet up in the trees: Alma, swinging
Like a purse of silk worms,
And the glad hooks of leaves as they settle
Down through the space above my open
Bed,
Covering me where I lie weeping- Alma;
The park hibernating in fire,
As you curl around the ash of his cave- Dreaming
Of flint sparking, while my eyes close,
And the heavens glimmer across the lake.