In That Orchestra That Pulses With The Tide Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The lighthouses are uneven,
Hugging the cliffs like infants—
But at least they are beautiful,
Crippled and dissolving
Wondering into the effluvious exaggerations
Where little girls metamorphosis with
Tadpoles—
And unicorns drink from the imaginary fountains
Halfway through a school day
Where Peter Pan is skipping school—
You can see him up on the houses
Sleeping in the wildflowers—
He has stolen everything from their mailboxes
And his lightning off Roman Candles—
Guinevere and Geronimo are asleep
Down by the canal,
But when the kaleidoscope turns they will
Will lose their identities—and be on their
Way, like each wave in the afternoon
Returning to the instrument of their desires—
As she beats with all of the hearts inside of her
In that orchestra that pulses with the tide.