Play with me before going back to sleep, <br />Because the cat has had her seven kittens like in a black <br />Box in the shadows <br />Underneath the penumbras of airplanes that go to read brail; <br />For I have begun vibrating through the fabulous joy <br />Of graveyards, <br />Humming the tune of asthmatic drums, that even the flowers <br />Should close up before they can be realized by the <br />Tourists have their way to the ritualistic universities to congratulate <br />Their corpulent and jaundice young: <br />That Alma can play with me all day the way a dog plays with <br />Its rabbit in the rock garden until fear or joy destroys the <br />Poor things heart, <br />And then she goes away to sleep at her master’s side, <br />While the ghosts of everything who wished that it was real <br />Joins the procession through the sepias of the unreal carport <br />Like the credits in a movie that her eyes never saw, <br />As they turned away through the darkness <br />To embrace the happenstances of his casualties of exploits.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-happenstances-of-his-casualties-of-exploits/
