Fireworks And Christmas Trees Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Wound is a vision that comes again
With the glass—
Let's open her up again, if only because
We have to go to the graveyards
Of school tomorrow
And we need to feel alive—
As the seahorses nibble the mermaids'
Breasts—of course they do—
Let's show our obscure pornographies
To the grottos of the pieta—
To that well lit and beautiful
Slaughter house, to the backsides of
Muses who have now collected to their
Children—
All of their snowflakes have melted—
And they do not cry—
But let us listen to the insides of those
Tears, anyways—even if it's not
What we are supposed to be doing—
We are supposed to be selling
Fireworks and
Christmas trees—
But let us try to amuse the language of
The corpse just one more time,
To shake up the fireflies
Into suicides of daylight—
To pretend to be brave even after
The fairgrounds of her heart have packed up
And moved away.