Too Close To Touch Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Reiterations of the progenitors,
We ripple outwards
From our ancestors—
The craftsmanship of
Ephemeral carpenters,
Each of us the latest
Attempt to realize the
Original Form,
The desire of our species
To return to the loci of paradise;
So we amputate our self into
The opposite sex,
In the futile search to
Recover the innocent childhood
Kidnapped like phosphorescent mica
Under forgetful stones
Scarring the historical battlefield,
Utterly imperfect with each
Passing generation
Stumbling blindfolded and
Gut shot,
Feeling but not recognizing
The manic happiness
Of our breathless ancestors’
Lipless grinning;
With each attempt the God
Inside us becomes more miniaturized,
The domesticated kine
Who stands dumbly
Expecting to be fed for
Scientific butchery,
Crying in our powerless homes,
Latchkey kids microwaving dinner
As those we love die
Similar lives
Surrounding us,
The paradoxical splendor too
Close for us to touch….