The Deities Of Its Own Graveyards

Poem By Robert Rorabeck

Yes—bus ride to nowhere— and brilliant
Allegiances with other crowns:
If you can love me without looking at
My face, we will do all right:
We can forever survive like the terrapin
Doing good in the cul-de-sac of her own neighborhood
Without having to ever look to far out
Of her shell: to where the pigeons are burning:
And what are they burning but
The echoes of pornography and uncommon
Justice until we get to here—and the fat
Black girls sing until they are all out of here and
All alone:
Then the stygian in the only known word I've
Known for it—as the ant, ant, ant—hyperventilates
Upon the deities of its own graveyard:
And all of the lights that ever were bloom anon and
Anon—until there is time enough to hold myself
And cradle myself before the graveyard of another
And in your barrooms you just so happen to
Dance—and you dance—puppet and puppeteer
Just so happening together somehow fused
Through the lifetimes that forever were.

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