The Unrequited Darkness Of My Night Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Pull off this like the string of a kite:
It is free; it hooks over the old factory,
And into the weeded lots of
Rabbits and endives- and all the way over my scars;
Like a marionette cut loose of its model
School yard and made to run away,
To turn lackadaisical near the shore side,
To lose all of its riches to cats and foxes
Who speak better to it- to never know the house of
Its maker again, the hands of its scrawl- like a letter
In a bottle castaway in the waves,
Curling up to the shins of a dismissive lover, who never bends
To ask what is this:
Already infatuated with the afterlife of her journeys,
She will recede halfheartedly and yet again into her green
Amphitheatres where her paper hearted kings
Will eat their sack lunches across the trapdoors of the floorboards
That hide the truer braveries from her sight:
Because she only falls in love with what she sees: she goes
To work and comes home early, and thus never believes
In the simulacrums of my factories burning their great and openhearted
Institutions through the unrequited darkness of my night.