Fields Of Barbed Wire Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Eden in the cowslips—bluest sort of thing:
The airplanes are resting,
Lightning languishes, cerulean disease in the evergreens:
Making love to bears across the
Stone nipples of that volcanic garden—
This used to be engulfed by a sea that has evaporated through
Some sort of abominable love,
And the blue cats take shelter in the tallest trees
Where my dogs whine for me all night
Lost across the valley where the
Trailer parks snore like tin-nosed crocodiles—
Maybe it will be all right, as she sheds all of her tears—
Daughters of the pilgrims making love to
Lost Indians, as the conquistadors glisten like rubies peeled
Away across the supple grasses, intermixed through so
Many fields of barbed-wire.