The Purple Rimmed Estuaries Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You are alright here: and it feels alright, being in the skin of
Tourists: daydream, up in a blaze sleeping all night in the cul-de-sacs
Of the nearest sun:
New words are invented as it rains, and lovers make love, while the
Pitch forks arise from the hay,
And the clouds make new constellations over the river boats that
Float over the immolations of the grave;
And it is just as beautiful as being out and blinded in her front
Yard: delivering Christmas trees and making money
As Alma’s first and last children are breathing and cooing:
And I will buy them presents again
As the first and the last saints and nicks of their chariots come close
And then burn home again:
As I have made numerous home runs on her, as her flowers pullulate
Over the open and glittering graves of prostitutes,
As the families come around and have dinner with themselves
In their warm and embalmed institutes;
As their fires reflect the stars of whatever gods who are here;
As the pools in the backyards of housewives shine like dimes, bloody
And numerous, homeopathic to the scars that multiply underneath
The heavens of her wombs, or in the anthills of how to end a poem,
Enigmatic of the fears of the nations of fieldtrips of trailer parks
That already happen to take place underneath the fireworks and the flags
Of the playgrounds of centipedes and latchkeys who have to admit
That they are already here, in the backyards waiting with the cenotaphs pf
Katydids in the armpits of cypress who emulate the last pantomimes of
The afterlife in the fires and fairies of the rum burning sugarcanes
Who deliver whatever it was meant to be before the eyes of the Florida
Lions and alligators who burned their thumbs off in this last
Cul-de-sac topped off in the purple rimmed estuaries of whatever was meant
To be.