Happens here, and laughing- spilling out the perfumes <br />From the places that will not heal: <br />Just here alongside a highway, where ever we are: <br />Not exactly getting any of it out: not really believing in anything: <br />Stumbling upon some luggage in the dusk of the roadside <br />The tourists tossed out; <br />And our knees are scabbed, and our body weeps, <br />And how much longer I do not know: <br />I do not even have a map of the country that we are in, but something <br />Is singing in the grass- intent and venomed by purpose; <br />It is there singing of us, and to sleep to a place we must go; <br />While the conquistadors keep busy in the dunes foraging for <br />Pornography, <br />And the traffic rushes like Mexican brooms, able to displace us <br />Even though we are not moving, but weeping for a kiss without <br />Legs, slithering through the easement anonymous: <br />A lover’s nameless bed, a featureless resting place.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/featureless-resting-place/
