The Night They Don'T Understand Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The Night They Don'T Understand



Echoing- echoing, the bones are young
Filled with yellowed specters, like song birds who saw
It all
And were turned away- down from the yellow sun,
A goddess torn,
Or other beautiful things that flood in the spring
In a coitus of joy or forget-me-nots,
While the grandparents are at church, their oldest daughter
In a grave at the top of the hill,
And swing-sets in their arc- while a brown muse
Curls like burning paper,
Up to the ashes of the cliff dwellers, who make their songs
Like water moccasins swimming up into the sky-
Wings and elbows moving across the stage,
A garden of lovers lost in a classroom or a supermarket,
As we made love until her husband called
Home- the crepuscule of cedar, incense of forgotten parks,
Lovers led astray from frightened fireworks,
As my dogs say nothing to the night they don’t understand.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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