The Wild Flower Graveyard Of Your Mother's Womb Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Centrifugal
Esplanades-
The land turns like
A reptilian hum-job;
Seasonal amusements
In outer space-
Some of them have died;
But the others’ filaments
Burn so brightly
You couldn’t tell:
That we are even now
Dying-
But the Universe is a rubber
Band, once snapped
The dead will walk
The earth backwards,
And we will play cowboys
And Indians
On the green floor under
The ceiling fan
Until you are so innocent,
Blessed to disavow any of
This-
Returned to the wild flower
Graveyard
Of your mother’s womb.