The Places Where They Used To Live Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Red flowers fluttering like torn ribbons of an aftermath:
Her eyes the dual vision of languid matadors:
They have given their colors of the deepest riches to put men
Beneath them quilled and snorting blood,
Asking for her children, their eyes the banner of surrender,
Leaping like a rabbit in a clutch of striking snakes:
And her soul smiles at the assassinations, while cars
Drive apathetically high across the places where they used to live.