The Dark Theatrics Of An Overgrown Tomb Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If I am good, then I am doing this:
Jarring the cages and keeping up after stags-
Their horns are worth so much powder to
Blow at the races,
Corked in rinds of when they were young and
They saw through the windows an exegesis,
A ship sailing away from behind-
Under perfect cloud cover the slight womb
Vanishing in a pinprick of a sliver:
It is what they are always running over and kicking
The earth for- but she has never since been home;
She just stares at them in pretty ways from a feral
Imagination,
Impossibly hung over, drunken, lunar,
And the ceiling fans whisper the crape moths to shutter
The weathers bending liquid temples that bound
And leap as the dark theatrics of an overgrown tomb.