To Make A Grotto Out Of The Carport

Moving further in the mazes of New
Mexico, or another heaven- getting further lost
With the Navajos,
Down the backsides of ships of rocks:
Words on your lips as poisonous and stuttering as
Your house, back alone in a daydream of
Syphilitic yellows- like girls from
China knocking up the cinderblocks above
The freshly mewing kittens-
All the way up to the goldfish in a rainy bowl
Staring back at her with the same sort of eyes
That abbreviate even the mailboxes heading into
Your mother stepping over your drunken absence,
Seeming to make a grotto out of the carport,
All sorts of toads serenading her, and even the
Turtles singing with blue tongues,
And eyes that go away to hide again.

by Robert Rorabeck

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