The Forgotten Holidays Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I don't know about the rose
Growing at the center of the labyrinth as
Some kind of unobtainable attainment
Or aesthetic truth:
I try to teach my children about this:
I try to hold each of their hands as they step
Outside—
But eventually there becomes a muted sound
Of their mutual enjoyments—
As the lowest places fill with clouds—
And the Ferris wheels are consumed by the
Largest wildfire that ever was—
Until the gossiping angels are told to one another
So many times
That they fall down and make love with their cousins—
Underneath the hallucinations of the overpasses—
As the waves crenulate the east, sounding like
Vipers, sounding like boom-slangs—
And all of the forgotten holidays of the housewives
That cannot find peace within themselves to sleep.