The Imprints Of A Very Lonely Fairytale Poem by Robert Rorabeck

But green and here and now,
And looking up, her eyes are also doing the same;
It is the end of the class:
It rains; and her eyes are looking up like cenotaphs who
Learned to move:
They go up the smoky wells of the draftsmen and their
Yellow mythologies;
And I don’t think I can actually see her again:
I think now that she is unreal, but she was there before
And in that time,
Like a train robber, like something sharp that came toward
Me, penetrating, and then walked away to art class
Her pockets bloody full with the things she tore,
And laughing;
And her father died, and I wept and didn’t go to school,
But went the opposite way to find myself
Like learning the imprints of a very lonely fairytale.