The Weddings Of The Dry And Foreboding Land Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Horses drinking down at the river.
Horses of dead men, or you can never be sure
If they aren’t speaking to the woman of blue,
Speaking over her infinite mane,
This woman of opulent rain:
She seems to peel straight through the trees;
It seems that they are bowing to her,
And yet there is no story recited of her criminal
Death,
How she cried herself that way and separated the
Country from the boys;
And airplanes leapt over her, but they were just
Sad little toys;
And no math could enter her,
But the horses came with their saddle bags of
Sand,
And she opened up her throat and reached out her hand;
And she ran until she rightly disappeared into the tendrils
Of the weddings of the dry and foreboding land.