Weeping To Be Inside Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Failed into flames, lapsed into tortoises,
Just trying the words to sing-
The busy throats, the ways on home: envisioned by
Words unremembered,
The laughing games of homeless homes,
The busy bodies of boneless bones- the cracks in the basalt
That steams from the stones,
And girls lying there, virgins to the rectitudes, suppliant
Transoms of their mother’s wombs:
Lying there like the deep purpled throats of some flowers,
And never singing:
But waiting with busied eyes just as if at a baseball game,
With the weathers coming in with hopes a wild:
These gifts of lonesome visions,
Sand in their eyes, bosoms waxy- and the evils grinning,
Looming atop their salient dishes,
Packages employing limbs and little carnal dishes,
Weeping, weeping to be inside.