The Vast Graveyard Of Red Hearts Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In a night of somber cadences people die,
Relatives and gods,
Like out in the middle of a New England forest,
All the wheat fields just skating rinks,
The trees like a luxurious China shop tempting the blistering
Lips of Apollo;
And my grandfather died,
And my father is taking a walk out in a blizzard.
He isn’t back yet- He invited me, but I couldn’t come-
How could I. I am skimming Mark Twain, traveling about
The pirouetting universe at her fattest middle;
I’ve got a headache- I’ve drunken too much coffee.
I’ve stayed up all night and counted the leaves that are missing.
The librarian is on to me, and eight people read my poem.
Two of them leave. Six who remain sit around and play cards
And then Russian Roulette when they are out of Vodka,
When they should’ve been drinking rum. Who are these people,
And what are they doing out in the middle of my storm
When I am out in the groves of Spain waiting for her under orange
And perfect orbs, thinking of her breasts and the ghosts of legionnaires
Who transfer their power from one to the next;
Or, outside my window birds peck through the flurries with the
Persistency of winged life, diminutive cousins to angels and
Devils, and I lay out another line like making a bed
Or preparing a coffin;
These are just some things I’ve had to say, or to silently scream out
Into the middle of nowhere before the vast graveyard of
Red-hearts who’ve been rocked to sleep by such savage lullabies
Housewarming gifts of the storm,
Like fires in tin horns which slowly keel over, their youth blushing
Dalliances of confection, only to gray and ash,
Blown away by her persistent lips who are always making upon
The next wish.