Failed into flames, lapsed into tortoises, <br />Just trying the words to sing- <br />The busy throats, the ways on home: envisioned by <br />Words unremembered, <br />The laughing games of homeless homes, <br />The busy bodies of boneless bones- the cracks in the basalt <br />That steams from the stones, <br />And girls lying there, virgins to the rectitudes, suppliant <br />Transoms of their mother’s wombs: <br />Lying there like the deep purpled throats of some flowers, <br />And never singing: <br />But waiting with busied eyes just as if at a baseball game, <br />With the weathers coming in with hopes a wild: <br />These gifts of lonesome visions, <br />Sand in their eyes, bosoms waxy- and the evils grinning, <br />Looming atop their salient dishes, <br />Packages employing limbs and little carnal dishes, <br />Weeping, weeping to be inside.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/weeping-to-be-inside/
