To My Sorrows Poem by Robert Rorabeck

They keep their moonlight burning to my sorrows—
So very soon I will have to digress into the crypts of the banshees:
The dead girls brushing their hair—
And maybe they will not be able to survive tomorrow—
Maybe they will keep themselves like butterflies who have their wings
Folded over until the next sun shower—
And then they will suddenly be overcast in their virginity—
And then they will be birthing new children on the east side of
Mexico and in their dawn—
While she doesn't read, breathing into the healthy numbers of
The goldfish that only know one avenue of a canal to
Survive—
Blimps, showing off their catastrophes and how they suddenly
Came to know the edge of the world—there they are standing at
The very precipices—like two daughters who cannot keep
Track of themselves—
Don't you see how beautiful I am now—or are you still asking what
Happened—as the school spills into the sky,
And I continue writing books that are impossible for me to
Understand.