The Sacred Grounds Of The Indians Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Browned onion in your sparse rib cage:
Where will you go with your child once you are all the
Way over the sacred grounds of the Indians,
And what bromeliads will bloom for you back a ways
In their cul-de-sacs of puzzles, or how the day will
Sweat to an end, filling up like tears the mowed
Corners of the yard,
Where the children who want to sell you things
Curl around the unnoticeable spines of your ancestors:
There they make a monument high enough to hear
The sea- where the waves are rolling, as you come to me.