The Stolen Bobbles That Are Your Heavens Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Elephants between pretty girls, gifts you gave me
To survive the world, until you burned my crops,
And return me to the loneliness of my bed:
You laid me down as silently as a child kissing a rattlesnake:
And this is my grave, as I lie here, as the centipedes dance:
This is my grave, as the rain measures my body,
Suiting my fancy- as you drive home in that brown labyrinth
Overfilling with the stolen bobbles that are your heavens.