If my house wines in its own epistemologies, <br />So I am here, <br />And burning up all of my comely liquors <br />While the dogs lick my open palm- as if I were saltlick <br />And they were deer, <br />Until the morning comes, and in it the rodeos, and the rounds <br />Of those daylights <br />Pilferings and stuck up through the snobs of smoke signals: <br />While nothing else has to be concluded- <br />And this only has to be a classroom that was once attended and <br />Then abandoned like a burned down school room <br />Into which all the pretty bouquets are suddenly bleeding: <br />And so then suddenly there is her bedroom, <br />And little fairies and she is home safe, <br />As through all of those winters on the higher mounds <br />Her loved ones come as if in a procession of weddings- <br />Sound, and safely returning.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/procession-of-weddings/
