The Tents Of Fireworks Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Oh sunlight of this place clouded into a labyrinth where
Inebriated dogs go to drown in the rose thorns grown
Across the pietas made by the armpits of dead prostitutes—
When all of the eons proceed in their shopping sprees
Of calcifying ellipses—leaving the best of their loveliest men
Calcified in the monuments that have no heroes—
And I am left alone—simplified, beautiful even while
Burned by the scars of an abandoned playground—
And as you flee, your feet never touch the earth—you become
Thirty feet into the air— and so much like an angel
Above the tents of fireworks that I can no longer wonder
What to think of you.