I am walking through a field of hemlocks <br />And everyone is picking some and <br />Committing suicide— <br />All in rows they fall like ripened fruit, <br />And worms wriggle and giggle just the same, <br />As their murmuring lips blister, <br />As their eyes exclaim— <br />In high school, everyone dies a little, <br />But they don’t look good doing it— <br />Sophocles never went to his classes, <br />As he skipped out and jumped around the sun, <br />Trying to figure out why the girl in <br />Second period never looked at him, <br />But he fell dead just before he was done— <br />And, just to the east, in her burnished suit, <br />The sea is longing to undress as <br />Lost children throw themselves into her <br />Throat and proclaim that the world is all <br />Too much, while behind them the city is building <br />New finer buildings up to the sky, <br />And the highest windows are like diving boards <br />For high diving suicides, <br />But their bodies never reach the places <br />When they fall, the places they were trying to get to, <br />Their lover’s home….<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/their-lover-s-home/
