Graveyard Of Sunbeams Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Clarity under the moon of a little house
In the little sanctuary of a village lactated from these mountains
That swells in the season of the tourists,
But otherwise is nocturnal: somnambulant village where are
You now—where I spent half a decade of my like kowtowing
To my father as be bought more and more horses—
Disappearing into an entire estuary—or a carport where my
Mother burned herself in Pieta to the song of the frogs
Against the rebar and the bluegills in the canal—
In that place where my aunt now disappears:
What awareness is there where the scotch pines are so burned
That no one will buy them for Christmas and all of her fabulous
Tits are so blackened—and my wife doesn't call,
And now even the mountains are all gone—
And there isn't a muse in the world that ever loved me,
And you know that you went off to college without me—
And the kites that we once shared are all stuck in the mangroves
Against the beach where we forgot to share each other,
Where the angels seem to burn hidden against the jellyfish
That always look up to her even in their graveyard of sunbeams.