The Finite World Of Its First Word Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The Finite World Of Its First Word



I started
With the stars:
The stars
The stars
So far outside
The besieged
City,
How distant
From society
And
Shopping malls,
Feral like
Wolves,
They haven’t
Speech
They do not make love;
They are but
Senseless wonder:
The womb,
The kiln,
Unmolested by
This art,
They remain just
As beautiful
As the child
Before it learns
Its rules,
And stands up
To move into
Mortal congratulations,
Articulate though corrupted,
The finite world of
Its first word.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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