With The Graces Of Pretty Flowers Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Graveyards filled with the graces of
Pretty flowers and pretty
Stones—
Ways beyond here,
Going up to the dumping grounds—
As you lay into his shoulder blades like a fetish
Of unrecognizable kites trying to
Make a pornographic movie high up
In the switchback gloom—
Ways that we have gone being lost forever
Inside a thunder shower that lasts only for a small
Part of one particular afternoon—
Flowers that hang over the
Battlements of lost grandfathers—
And your shoulders open to the sun,
Running red and brown,
Brown and red—
Castigated and stumbling over all of the
Remaining bodies of those whom they will love
For forever more.