Of The Graveyards- Of The Monuments Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Burring your gold, like my eyes—next to the sea—
And the other nouns and pronouns
Dance by themselves in the middle of the afternoons—until
It is finally alright to struggle and to
Account for the heirlooms as they are left from the
Wrists of the graves—
As menagerie of a million slender things slither—
As the other teachers pretend it is alright to empty out
A headroom and find the spaces to conceive
Of out all of the inevitable outcomes for the defeated
Tourists—
And then there are pillow fights underneath the light houses—
And the seahorses become unmanned—
Diminutive unicorns—what places are for them,
Except for in the aquatic bouquets that can only swallow the
Aquatic playgrounds of the sunlight surrounding the
Nuptials of all of the careworn holidays—
Until the battle has ended, and all of the fireworks lit—
The bravest of the penumbras stand up for themselves—and
Figure out for themselves the constellations that still
Remain burning, like one plus one, the gods to believe in,
The singularities that remain burning—
And all of the repetitions of the after lives of the Hindus
That can never be seen in the post cards of cliff dwellings of
The tourists that are forever returning—
And I love you—and I love you—as the waves say,
Keeping their mouthfuls—of the graveyards—of the monuments—
Of the grottos—that go on forever—repeating.