In Ganymede's Shadow Poem by Robert Rorabeck

They all turn swell in Ganymede's shadow—
While we are all just looking out,
And we cannot see just how she turns around—
For the trailer-parks as for the nimbus:
Perpetual bodies in the tomb—
Counting and swearing by the werewolves and
The whatnots that we still live here,
And that we are all fed up:
Bodies blooming in the clover hoping to win
The four-leaf lottery,
Spelling out of the love letters that are all thumbs:
Until finally that fine mother cat has given birth to
Kittens: kittens—underneath the brightest lights
Of the midwives of the séances—
Of the aphrodisiacs of the candelabrums of the waves—
Of a I don't know what else—
Except for the preternatural existence of their
Nature—life right here—nude and showing off in
Color—
Soon to be reborn without nuclear remembrances:
If just enough to spread the nebula upon the palate:
A day light, a dilemma—
And another yard amassed that doesn't belong
To the bedded light of the dreams
That sway upon the cobwebs of the headlights of
The nebulas—that there remains always a tomorrow
That forgets most of itself—and even though
The waves come and go so beautiful—
They are yet no so swift to dream.