Like A Maelstrom Of Bicycles Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Isn’t it beauty, getting drunk and remembering
The lies she whispered sp beautifully
Underneath the overpasses above the scars
Before it got time to be Christmas and then any of
This—
The places where beauty remains, hidden in
The estuaries of a childhood vanished from the schoolyards:
It becomes so difficult to behave, distracted like
The moths under her—
Until all of the traffics arrives, turning brighter and
Brighter,
And making all together a maelstrom underneath
The overpasses of burry mountains—like a maelstrom
Of fireflies with nowhere else to go.