All of the silence that Alma gives me today, <br />Finds me cultivating myself, a gray landscaping for <br />A flooding grave: <br />Even though as always the cars come, seething, spinning <br />Their wheels, <br />And making their wishes over the head rooms of the <br />Roofless yards; <br />And it is painful to breakdown, realizing all of the scars <br />Drop you so far away <br />From Mickey Mouse, like Dorothy up amidst the stratosphere, <br />Pirouetting while asleep, <br />In the dance classes of lighter than air angels, <br />While their fathers fence beneath the smoldering eyes of the <br />Stand to for cats <br />Who seem to smile as if they know it all: <br />And I am sure that they do, <br />Even as the passageways tend to run down until there are no <br />More monsters, <br />And in the dark locis of bedrooms without incest, <br />The heroes diminish without candle light until they are without <br />Anymore need for themselves.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-the-dark-locis-of-bedrooms/
