The Hypnotic Memories Of Her Goods Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Are you still spilling Cimarron
After the peddlers have gushed
Amidst the stones
And tufts of grass:
Pullulated halfway through by
The territorial savages
Who streamed down the red cliffs
Which have no shores;
The gypsies of her concourse
Who showed you her open eyes,
And pawned her teeth on strings of filament,
Now the tatters of Lincoln’s plan,
Their wares her legs pillaged
From their sacks,
Put together and raped
Behind the orange caravanserai,
Now bastards spill out like tadpoles
With last names:
Croaking the fatherless weather,
They dry into husks beside their
Vivisected fosterers
Scattered in the murderer’s crop
Banners of clothing hung in the briars
Where her nape still glistens
The hypnotic memories of her goods.