Brown cathedrals of sunshine,
Burnishing equally over the carports
And the grottos
As well as the chicken coops- inside
Their soft waters,
Mothers in pieta, bare footed housewives
Electrocuted by open faced extension
Cords
As the toads sing that they want at least to
Be princes
Who most certainly ought to be kings:
The rhythms of a steady metamorphosis beat
In the rain-
As the fair in my heart never return- it went
Out into the yard,
And through the corrugations- the sea
Shells became brindled underneath the sun,
And someone who was more tragic than
I ran away.
Robert Rorabeck
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-sea-shells-2/
