You love him: the storm chirps, the liquor drizzles <br />Of my lips like rain: <br />My grandmother is dead in Michigan, but at least she will <br />Never have to be dead again: <br />Oh, the soft stone, who speaks the finality of the last words, <br />But to the greater generations, <br />Like the storm succession of ants in storm drains, <br />There is no record of their unrequited love, or of their mindless <br />Hate: <br />Their many-legged wars on valentines day, or to muses which were <br />Their progenitors to which they will never care to write again <br />For: <br />They have their own sandbars, and their shelves in the recesses <br />Of the long-jawed barracudas, <br />While you have your Almas that are worth fighting for: <br />The pretty songs the depths of her eyes give off like gunfights on the <br />Frontier, <br />Like monster movies so deep in the night that nobody has energy <br />For staying up for; <br />And Sharon is still selling her wine, just trying to survive, <br />While the Rocky Mountains like the undone Titans of lore line up for <br />Her: <br />Like boys with sticks against picket fences line up for her, <br />While the ponies run and the orchards bloom finally into oranges, <br />As round and as perfect as unicorns who are blushing <br />For their immortal batters who are even now rounding home with <br />A satchel full of letters like butterflies in the foot traffic <br />Of the lower level of the heavens where the feral and pagan boys <br />Can still throw their paper airplanes without any prayers or <br />Any other fears of an immortal hell.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/of-an-immortal-hell/
