Their Littlest Kingdoms Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Full with the shadows that never fall:
I will eventually get up my body, gray, boyish,
A premature cenotaph: get up and draw my body across
The graveyards of mailboxes,
The open throats of airplants, the cars resting there like
Panthers,
The quick digging of ants- that the ants can dig, and
The sand lions under the fuselages of their roaring gods:
That I can get up and go out in the roaring day,
Watching the conflagrations of clouds pushing one another,
Falling like the cataracts of vanished lovers,
Slipping somewhere on the other side of the hedgerows,
And basking in the tanks of greenness, as the little things dig
In their little dreams upon their backs,
All the way down the singing throats, go these littlest kings
In their littlest kingdoms.