The Basking Valleys Of Its Gunfights Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The Basking Valleys Of Its Gunfights

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This is where it was—like a poem,
An avenue to nowhere—
Inspired by the twelve year old bottle on another night,
With new scars on my head—
And beautiful students who love me—
Isn't it a wonder, that it is the most beautiful students who
Love me the most:
But even this is done with here, and
Going back to those lines,
Where do we find my emptiness, sometimes remembering
The steepened highways in Saint Louis,
Before I even encountered my mostly brighter muses—
And those amber skeletons that would have
Me now if it wasn't for my wife—
And another night down in the drinking fountains I
Tried to tell you the truth about—
Jaunting estuaries that seem to be putting some sort of
Fairytale into the mirages of the always leaping
Airplanes—
And if this is my soul, then it is my soul too:
And if it is a candle, it is a candle you have to blow out—
And a wish you haven't wished for,
And another night in its somberest echoes coming to
Turn around to give back to you all of its resonances, wishing
To hope to find you there again in the morning—
Called out into the open theaters of the greenness rebounding—
In that stadium that seems to recall the greatnesses of
The uncensored playgrounds—
Their green gemstones and emeralds just another way to
End this thing in the basking valleys of its gunfights—
For it could end just about anyway—
But this is just about how it ends tonight.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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