Things That Are Impossible To Move Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Mute as the clouds, I hang over your body and
Pretend to be important:
I puff up my giants in great coloring books, but none
Of them coalesce and maybe it was real at
A point,
Or maybe you just go on lying in your bed
And counting the numbers in the trees;
But outside is another world, running away,
While I have been counting the impossible steps
Between the unending trees, while the wolves
Know all of the grandmothers of your breaths, and now
Even though we made love yesterday,
It has all come down to a honed point, and you are sleeping
With your man, who left you, but returned from
Mexico to steal you away again- and now your eyes
Are the deepest epitaphs directing the traffic towards
Things that are impossible to move.