To The Devil Inside Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Spasms of fish out of the sea—homeless men burning tires
Beneath the trees—and the entire world tethered
To a pole without any Christmas tree lights—
The entire heart of high school burned away,
Made into a cemetery—
And the forts we made out of blue fabric and the
Kitchen table sunken into the forgetful gravities of
The children who cannot understand us—
It goes all week like this—words trying to kiss the
Shoulders that have grown too high for them—
Fetishes strewn out for witchcraft drowned out
Underneath the busied flight paths of adulterous
Airplanes—and my soul waiting for a sign like a maiden
Beside a wishing well—perfumes that signify the evening
And dinner tables strewn out, tumbling with the results
Of the tender hooks of death that allow us to survive—
Yes, in the morning: angels who so gently lead us to the
Devil inside.