Poetical devices leaping for their only god, <br />Hoping the darkness of the overcast blackout <br />That he is still there throwing bird crumbs <br />To the thorn bushes <br />Against the quietly segregated dorms I used <br />To deliver to in my old truck; <br />They don’t give a thought to failure as they come <br />Suckling like piglets on my fingers, <br />Like tapdancing soon to be mothers open bloused <br />On a stage for blind men, <br />Still hoping that she is there in the tramping crowd, <br />desperately certain that they will find her because <br />She loves them; <br />But she cannot even see the wayward children, the <br />Freakish carnival daycare that I lead around, <br />Affecting more scars, becoming further isolated from <br />The rounds of cheeky firemen: <br />She cannot love them when she is fully situated in his <br />Arms, when she can look the racing hard-edged world <br />In the eye and give it a good run for its money. <br />She has no use for such devices, <br />And thus they escape her, they run through her like the <br />Finest elements yet understood by the scientists who <br />Would define her by them, <br />Giving proof to the atheist and revealing the glinting <br />Epitaphs of dead explorers elbows bat winged like the <br />Washington Monument in the hallucinatory dunes riling <br />Just outside my backyard window, <br />Thirsty and husking in the empire of the sun’s playground.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-the-empire-of-the-sun-s-playground/
