Maybe we will love each other more in march— <br />As we each cross over individually <br />The fields the need to be mowed—not wanting to <br />Disturb the sleeping saints or anyone else <br />Who is so preposterous to live there: <br />The same way that the newest of graffiti <br />Finds its way onto the desks of my classroom, <br />As my children shuffle in: <br />I don't know anything about them, but they <br />Are like cartoons made to play in a zoetrope <br />Across a dying man—just little tricks of my theatre <br />Which seems somehow to yet survive, <br />Preposterously across all of the newly wedded heavens <br />Of New Mexico, and the most saintliest of deserts <br />Where my father still may sell fireworks— <br />But now he is up in Canada, brushing down his <br />Horses—they glow for him, and represent something else <br />To the world that he knows - more than the words <br />Of the scholars that flit and splashed against him— <br />The acidity of their salts have disappeared into the snow storm, <br />While I work and teach from the memories of his <br />Echoes—but it seems so strange—like pornographic <br />Science-fiction—genuflected to the pit and the rind <br />Of the rattlesnake that we, eventually, inevitably— <br />And unfortunately—and both at the same time, <br />Must somehow both strive to be <br />The bravest of men.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-bravest-of-men/
