Of The World Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In the clefts of purple monuments that don’t
Belong here anymore,
While she is arraigned in her homely tenements
And the mountains
Rise like clouds over the substrata’s:
In fact, they are not here:
But the cars are here,
And the people upturning through the abandoned
Afternoons:
There are so many of them:
So many of them that you do not know:
While I’ve been so busy shoplifting, and lying down
In my bed after the aforementioned grasshoppers
Have skipped over the concrete trying
To compete with the airplanes in their
Some kind of show:
As the fireworks show their stuff but so easily die
Across the tenements and the garage sales of the
Word we were all supposed to know.