The Syllabes Of The Heavens Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Tables of really un-worked glory taking off
Their skates,
Beginning to see the glorifications of all of
The saints in
The ellipses of the open mouths of obscured lions-
The fireworks filibustering
To the grandeurs of dolphins, hurricanes,
And porpoises:
And this is true: for a little while a fire,
A fingerprint or a hoof print:
A chalk game over the cenotaphs- but mostly
The heartbeats of waves
That know no echoes, but who come repeatedly
Taking the shore repeatedly-
Making a new element of her geometry, so she
Floats around in a gaseous nature, knowing new
Scars as she does her laundry once more
In the glorified carports where the amphibians
Are making a chorus of her ankle-deep name,
As the rain storms come repeatedly,
Repeating the syllables of the heavens she cannot spell.