The Briers Of Foxes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

A lack of children underneath the billboards:
And I will be going to see my dying grandfather tomorrow—
Going up into the football stadiums of the
Appalachians where the ancient gods pressed their feet
And made bootleg wine in between the dens of bears
And the briers of foxes
And the holes of snakes:
In that world where dirtballs tumble,
Where the greenest mountains bend their knees to look
At the housewives wearing diamonds pressed into their
Cars—up that asphalt way taking us back halfway to
Some latchkey childhood—
And in those whispers where children mumble,
Mouths filled with huckleberries and wombs of unknown
Women that glitter with marble and sawdust—
Where one white horse kicks,
Made of porcelain—
Tossed in the glorious splash of weeds of wild perfumes
Hidden at the end of a road only the jackrabbits travel.