I'm sorry—but she looks like she knows <br />That I love her, <br />And she is my wife—and I get up every day, <br />Evacuation, <br />Becoming the art of archeology—and the vanishing <br />Indians end up misconstruing and vanishing again <br />Into the heart of an emptied airplane: <br />And this, at least, is the place I have dug: <br />Waiting for all of the rest of the armies to finally come <br />Out from the jungles and fall over us: <br />Peace in her eyes, just like a corpse's peace— <br />And a bouquet in her hands but for a dead man, <br />As the fireworks play out in a dance hall that the angels <br />Once danced in—but long since have moved <br />Out—as the angels leap and leap about across <br />The uneasy ululations of a Ferris Wheel from which we've <br />Had a falling out and this is the all and the last of <br />What can be said of whatever we had to say of our amens.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/of-our-amens/
