The Villages Of Emptier Things Poem by Robert Rorabeck

When they go down to the bottom of the
Well, they blow their trumpets and the blind
Skeletons dance underneath the make-believe sky
Where the wolves and the bears are kind
To them:
They bring them lunches of fire, and the skeletons
Dance brighter in wicked desire-
Like spikenard rustling underneath a tower,
Or rinds of tin of lost knights that shower
In the leaves of the orchards of nameless
Desire: they remain there by the powerful magnetisms
Of banshees of scorned housewives- women
Who needed their ruby challises on bosoms
And thighs- and the moon saddles these brave lost
Men in their semiconscious graves-
While the ravens dance and eat the fields of monarchs
Who cover the fickle plum trees as it rains,
Like the memories of their own lost mothers
Who bled them onto milk weeds,
Until they crawled up to a crystal metamorphosis
On the chain-link fences overlooking the villages of
Emptier things.