The Ghosts Of Native Americans Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Again elevating, making love before a beach:
Levitating for helicopters who come primary colors
Before they excavate the swing-sets of
My childhood- the very amusements my mother pushed me
On close to three decades ago are finally being
Condemned- little recluse across the Palm Beaches,
Her sinister lips kissing the gods who live in the
Sky- While I ride my bicycle homeless,
And wind tares away the meanings of these heavens
As I strive to remember, and find her warm
Embrace in the claustrophobic midway of the
Carnivals forever escaping from the mortal wounds
Of this heart
Underneath a window of rocks where the ghosts
Of native Americans levitate, chanting my name.