Underneath The Vanished Stars Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In this graveyard, in this cathedral—the girls look up—
And now they seem delighted—
And now they are turning away, turning up the rocks
Towards the faces of god knows what—
And soon they will disappear—like amusement rides we will
Never have to see again—
And when they are gone—well, oh, what mystery:
And I set candles out for them—
And offer prayers that I am unsure of, and call their names
All of the way up to the moon—
But then I already know that they are employed by the
Better elements—into the sororities of the
Girls who keep holding out unto all of the weathers—
And the night is old and priceless—
And we steal the bicycles of our old professors on
Thanksgiving and we keep riding out and riding out—
And you keep longing for me, or something else you cannot
Believe in—until the yards are spoiled and bright red
With paint and blood and
Abandoned apples—
And we are left out of all of the establishments, learning to
Sing for ourselves—until the hurricanes are almost gone,
And the candles are almost finished—
And the light of god can almost be seen—titillating
On the brink of the precipice of
The joys they let off of the ships that she abandoned—
And she only did this because of alliteration and
Because of other things—
And now she is a memory into the east, like the sun
Waking up—until she is not a memory at all—
And the world has awakened underneath the vanished stars.