Lips Of The Rattlesnake Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I will publish my art through the new diamonds
And then I will survive by holding on:
What candle that wept beneath the burning bush—
What silent lip set afire by gasoline while the
Airplanes are pushing out:
Oh, mute child in Colorado underneath the mountains;
Wait for the rainstorms to come—
For then we will all be mute, and the you can
Sell yourself to the lips of the rattlesnake without any
Grief.