The Kiln Of Caesuras Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Imperfect such as this: but beautiful- beautiful,
And lining the road:
The ululating throats of orchards and nematodes:
And all of this stuff wakes up on the burning
Fingerprint of a candle
And just keeps on doggedly cajoling- trying to sell its
Forever blesses retinue from outside the séances of
Forts that are as sheltered as terrapin
Until their candles burn out and their saints smell like
Roses they are so blind;
And the tourists return to their main rooms like hotels
In which they wish to discover better love,
But it all goes unequalled as the waves throw themselves
On the nativities of the sand- taking away
The tiny vestibules that used to wink like entire daises
Against the kiln of caesuras and up into the heavens
They never knew.