The Soft Enclaves Of The Grottos Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Foaming in the sun across the reefs
Of Dionysus, waiting for the fruiteria to finally close
Down,
Waiting for Alma to finally wined down, to finally think of
Me,
While all of the fuselages of airplanes are in the sky,
Like the birthstones of boys who never believe:
The bicycles of virgins are touching the soft enclaves of the grottos
Of the virgins who have become so predisposed
To ever have to believe anything of everything that I
Have mouthed off to the midsummer morning, to ever have to
Believe:
All of the monoliths of cenotaphs, and the failed midways of the
Games of despondent lovers too numb to know the feelings
Of who they are or whoever they were meant to be,
Will all of the graveyards accumulate upwards in mountains
Of grandmothers,
As all of the forgotten ancestors try to exercise their beliefs
Into the constellations of the mid afternoon constellations of the still
Living graveyards into which we never even have to cast
A wish in to believe.