The Enfant Shakespeare Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Say his name, and watch him disappear
The artist in the valley holding his guts,
The tassels of green, like a distended forest,
And his eyes the very surprised things
Who though mortally hit,
Continue to swear by the stance that
Up in the universe, in the carrousels of
Modern light, there remains a ruthless meaning.
Down against his feet, the dead men go tapping,
Miners of his better thoughts,
Eager for him to join the static dance
With the janitors of done fore bachelors,
These slaughtered ilk, her very stepping stones,
Buried in the natives’ condos,
The fraternity of the endangered heart,
Thwarted and mortaring the dungeoned plate:
A column of male bodies in the caravanserai,
A resting place for her fast automobile.
Leaving her sounds to entertain him,
She drinks the lips of a dispassionate John,
As he walks in weedy paths perambulating
The gray stones, thinking that any moment,
Like a faithful dog, one of them will be his.