Black men sleek and creaking through the woods- <br />Twelve percent white men because their old masters <br />Were up to no good- <br />Maybe a little native American according to their <br />Taboo, but that is lucky toothed rubbish- <br />And today we sell gardens on the carport of fifes, <br />Older young men and young older wifes: <br />And the sky, why wasn’t it just the witch’s sacrificial <br />Knife: and yards and yards of cystic clouds, <br />And young born strangers richly accorded: We sold <br />Them an entire garden we wish we could have afforded: <br />And I jogged alone at night beside the canal; <br />And in Arizona my puppies howl- but our harpoons <br />Found the angels and dragged them purple hearted into <br />Our balmy garden sale; yeah, like cormorants in luxuriant hell.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/like-cormerants-in-luxuriant-hell/
