Billy The Kid Poem by Robert Rorabeck

And so we spoke of the time of angels—
And Shanghai became the kind of quiet that you can barely
Hear:
Translucency of echoes that come on winged carriages
That take me to another place:
To graveyards above Sara Teasdale,
And to imagined perfections where my words can
Stand on there own,
Coming inside so many warm libraries,
Like birthing trinkets inside cemetaries, to transform
The into amusement parks:
See in this little lot of dust, some kind of poetry is
Also formed—a dust devil delights in the opened palms of
Star fish and dances for awhile
Besides the barren canal, and the over turned carriages
That conceal the bones and rosy cemetaries of
Billy The Kid.