The Strange Relicts Poem by Robert Rorabeck

All of the strange relicts were gone by Christmas,
And I got married one year ago—
So my heart wouldn't have to die
By the usual flight paths of another replication of
The Earth—
Strange thoughts to be having when you don't
Have to be alone, like any other words
That spill out from the times
While we were supposed to be together,
With the jasmine perfuming the night
After the baseball games were done—
And the flight paths were emptied—
And the orange trees yet bloomed—
And the world stood barren on a precipice looking
At the castle of vampire, and saying over and
Over, as if trying to put a child to sleep
Underneath the mountains—
His will be done—his will be done.