The Woebegone Nature Poem by Robert Rorabeck
The Woebegone Nature
Moon dust in the tears of your own god—
My cup is cracked, wanting to be a bowl
For your vanity of seashells—
How about you going home to him day to day,
Young body awash in the browning fevers
Of another dusk,
Day lost behind you, like a terrapin vanishing
Into the trailer parks or orange groves
Slickening in the woebegone nature of
Such blinding variety.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/4/2024 5:39:44 AM # 1.0.0.1119
