Until The Tears Run It Away Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Up these recesses, the fingerprints who are the hoodlums
Of no criminals:
Just the turpentines of used up Ferris Wheels and the grounds
They grew in:
The little feet and eyes that stumbled in their ways to get
To their sweets or wherever they were;
And it feels alright to say these things, even while you
And your daughter have swung into his arms, and bricked into
That fairytale house I will never have to tell my own lingering
Children about, you close your eyes against the catastrophes of
The stars- and your many maddening explanations:
And the trailer parks lie all about like dirty silver terrapin making
Their love for billboards:
And so things are sold and bought in their way, and car doors
Are closed and driven away;
And, summering, the mountain turns golden with all its giving away
Of things:
And then it lies, naked, barren, waiting for the foul canvas like
A lover unmasked before a rudely masterful day:
That paints it white with fear, until the tears run it away.