The Infinities Of Dead Ends Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Down in the piles of caesuras—
Made up like stately bouquets in the middle of
Their Saturdays and
Sundays—
Looking at the cumulus tricks of clouds—
Things that build up, weep and dissolve without being
There;
Paid tricks in their seasons—ways to head north
Over-spilling with their advertisements
And lost ships:
And when it rains, the universities of my pasts
Looking so ghostly and so passive:
Their libraries emptied—
Their rose gardens some graveyards for bees in their
Pornographic cemeteries—
And I had my houses run like horses whipped by the
Lightning—as I've tried to call her
Through the cerulean amusements that she could never
Open her eyes to believe in—
Until the tournaments started out alongside the roadsides:
And underneath them the labyrinths moaned—
As the monsters stumbled underneath the headless windmills
Of the infinities of dead ends.