The Broken Promise Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Pillboxes of jovial mercury
Wrestles with modern weaponry that is past its
Prime:
This is how you begun this this time, how anything
Can be begun
With words flung up to the wind, like the surcease of
Juggling swords or just like
Going down from the garden to the darkness of the
Valley,
Turning your back mutually, but not wanting to turn,
Knowing that this is not the good way home,
Knowing that this is darkness enfolded;
This is the dead sailor clutching toward the dead sailor
In the peachy surf
So it doesn’t really matter how the world flooded for the
Second time:
This is all of the great oceans flooded without an arc;
Or this is the scriptures for gold fish;
Or this is the broken promise.