The Meadows Of Her Dreams Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Powerful disfigurement: ants under the microscope
Looking as dissimilar as my father infinitely alone with
All of his horses,
While the storm comes, surges:
Yes it does, floods: superheroes drown, unalarmed,
Over-bloated bellies smelling like five- o’clock fires:
Places to find nothingness,
Boats in the bathtub prancing around for another make-believe
For tourists,
Cornices upon the bank of teepees- silent prayers going
Down her cheeks as the snowmelts- asphodels weeping
To die,
Sticking their heads above the crumbling asphalt above
The rickshaws of moaning trees- filing away
In the splendors that repeat for the door to door salesmen,
And then the best of it storming away,
Ending up in the grottos of unpersonified loneliness,
Like the unadorned orchards that are pony-less,
But never fail to lose themselves crying for her
As they slip down the meadows of her dreams.