The Deafening Loam Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If you are washed, I will still save
You in my thoughts:
If I cannot smell you on my sleeves,
I will lush on the bereavement of such unjust
Amnesty:
As up on her hill my grandmother no longer moves,
But lies parallel with the rusting cross,
And beneath her the cars move
Like unbusied ants; and I haven’t seen my dogs,
But would ask them to find her out and kiss her,
For all that is left of her is the husk of
A womb,
Like tinfoil around the crust of a pie:
I would ask my dogs to kiss her, and then piss on the sky,
To mark her, to know you by;
And the tourists are leaving the funness for home;
The remains of funnel cakes on their lips,
Like fish slapping again into the residence of aquarium,
Going by with the busses of sub-truth:
I dream of you and touch myself in the cheering grayness of
Suffocating youth;
And I want you again in another stanza of my poem;
And I want to see you again tomorrow, a saving light breasted
Against the deafening loam.