The Busted Eyes Of Angels Poem by Robert Rorabeck

And in those broken tenements the busted eyes
Of angels who wear zebra prints:
How I wrote novels for you in the moonlight
Beside the cemetery, the cathedral—
And next to the high school: how my brightest light
Shone for you through the night—
How my soul evaporated in a petri dish for you eleven
Years ago—emollitions through these scars—
Now I am married to a woman I do not love
But who loves me—and the future lies like
An empty parking lot beneath the vanishing snowflakes
You are breathing—some kind of joy forgotten
In your flesh—you lie out for him like plastic emeralds
Over a birthday cake—forgetting all of the parts of
The country you've never been to—
Underneath the mountains who themselves are underneath
The stars—all of them developing in a film for
Reptiles—you brandish yourself for the fires that no
Longer burn—and the marionettes who do not linger
Over the fact of loving you,
Jump over the zoetrope of leaping foxes that are
Also being pulled by strings.