To Surrender To The Monsters Poem by Robert Rorabeck

When the butterfly makes
Its sounds in
Bed it is time to
Go to work,
Across the traintracks,
Inside the
Mountain-
Where the darkest road
Goes nearest the
Fingers of
Blind men-
And the goblins say they
Are in charge
And get no resistance-
Where school boys
Change into
Grown men drinking in
The lavatories
And masturbating
In the crawl
Spaces of crippled
Airplanes that lay like
Dungeons raising their hands to
Surrender
To their monters- as crepescule makes
Its charge across
The wooden necks of mailboxes-
And the mermaids take
Their turns in the
Shallowest baths of
Infantile canvases-
For the foxes who are
Not brave enough to
Reach them
And the pilots who are
Too far gone to return.