The Shoulder-Blades Of A Goddess Poem by Robert Rorabeck

As soon as the gloves are off,
All of the tit-mice fall asleep in their fields.
A wisp of cloud is at my midday’s
Window.
And, although the world is broken into
Factions,
For the moment all is peaceful
And I can lounge anonymously
And not suffer the pangs of greater
Or of lesser things—
As I once did—
As all accords now to its various
Perspectives—
Arthur Rimbaud is buried in a field in
France:
In a womb, in an armpit;
Children I once knew are hallway through
Their school day.
The sun is strolling through
The mountains.
Using his trusty cane, he sings
A lullaby,
A daydream for the sun shower
Passingly and momentarily beautiful
Highlighting the shoulder-blades of a goddess.