Who Time Cannot Kill Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I can talk this way, my voice yet
Reacting to the scars, so that I sound vulnerable
And well-made: I can lounge around in the
Humid duns: I cannot look at cars, but I can hear them,
While Pedro makes a little extra money cutting
Branches for wreathes: And it is Tuesday and slow,
And mom and dad came early with blue berry pancakes
And requests and admonitions of guilt, and tickets
To price things: I’ve have put so much poison into the
Grass, but the ants are still building their kingdoms beneath
The stars, with so many legs: the mythological race
Which will succeed us: strange apoplectic kingdoms of
Daub and mastication, hired by queens and reacting
The scents of her pullulating abdomen: stranger sorts
Of men lounge upon the earth, like Martians presupposed
By Ray Bradbury; and us sown into the earth, and our
Headstones eaten away into just the roots of convenient
Monuments, and all those billions of human squadrons,
Of entire families and nations who feuded, resting
Like a feverish book finally laid to rest: all those dun men
And their epitaphs given over to a new sort who might
Not even acknowledge us except by their radicals, in their
Apogrypha: those sorts made to drink hemlock, who do
Not shave, whose eyes deserve the unruliness of a sailor’s
Sky: those men who even as magma reemerge to tumble like
Newborn puppies of fire, who I can almost remember,
Who time cannot kill.