What have I to say, speaking to the fading colors
That enfold the corpse of roses;
And even I am not here: bound up, and taking orders,
Driving around on roads with names without
Lovers,
Like fish trying hard to learn how to spell- even if the
Angels awaken before the first bell,
And school arrives, and beauties get tardy for running
Their honeys over the fire engines and beehives:
It is all supposes:
The recesses of tombs a musical held over- lightning floods
The sky in the brevity of held over kisses:
It is gone like the motions in an eye, as it engorges:
Pallid tombs of exlovers and tomboys
Run over- the monuments looking high upon themselves:
Stalwartly, hung over,
Like hands running over themselves at picking time,
Limbs and brambles of bodies hunched over, never recognizing
The weather flooding through the bowers, causing criminy
And laying down all the blooms of their flowers:
So that the teardrops can pass by, falling into the baskets
Unwoven from spouses who are not there- they are not even
At home, unwaiting, but in the feverish corpses of living dreams,
Like suns that run like yoke with the does and with the buses;
And it gives a breakfast to the meaning of the sadness of
Things,
Like baseball diamonds emptied by a schoolyard of empty hours.
Robert Rorabeck
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/schoolyard-of-empty-hours/
