The Devils And The Indian Givers Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The Devils And The Indian Givers



Where do hummingbirds sleep?
I don't know—
Maybe it's where the proverbial Jack and Jill go:
Maybe he sleeps down river from all of
The lamplight,
Maybe they sleep in the perfumes of
Night blooming jasmine in all of the moonlight—
I don't know—
The homeless men just do a jig of bones outside
Of the hotel
You are happily making love in with your swell—
Swell—swell—
Maybe making the same mistakes as the repetitions
As the repetition of the sea over the
Proverbial hell—
In the castanets I still cannot remember—across
The Earth—
Like autumn—like December—
Until skeletons get up to dance, remembering the seasons
Where they were once men—some many of them:
More than men,
The once men, as the shadows pearl across the earth—
And the horses scream
For the housewife's dearth- and a lack of pageantry—
Marionettes fed into the hearth—
And the days go on and on,
As the knights hand neck-wise from their trees,
Leaves live evergreen waves—
Knowing the séances the witches used to pitch them into
Graves—
Until the songs are swallowed—and the seas commence
To swallow the lakes and the rivers—
And the definitions given to us of the earth and her business
Of flowers are taken backwards by the devil—
By the devils and the Indian givers.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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