The Closing Times That Are Never Heard Poem by Robert Rorabeck

There you are, diving in the fashion of your choices,
Each of you sharpened into a weapon or
A tool,
Feathered, and going down: you can swim to the bottom of
The earth and rise up again;
While I have been doing this for so long, catching blue gills
And swinging them around
Like breathless girls out at prom,
Until finally the shady trees slip across the sea:
They form tiny bridges that sparkle under the tenements
For you, for me;
And the world goes round, spreading the happenstances of daylight:
My sisters move in Phoenix,
Some lion yawns, and the tourists are always jubilant, while
Alma is going to lie down in a bed that she shares
With him: he probably doesn’t even exist, but he is there,
While each little voice that I print to no one crawls out and
Tries to live for a few seconds across the sandy playgrounds
Deeply into the closing times that are never heard.