In The Better Instruments Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Drinking in a church of Apaches- not Navajos-
Face scarred and changing like my body,
My grandfather is in peril in Tennessee, already wanting to go:
And my parents sleep in a bed of wallow fire
160,000 acres long, praying to their horses, and feeding
Them green embers, like jewels to the unjinged mouth of
Serpents,
Until even rivers flow up to them, asking for more;
And the stewardesses hang low from their airy porticos,
Showing pearly breasts, and challenging them that this is all:
And soon I will go to sleep in this church too:
My three dogs sleep outside like pages- I sleep underneath two
Castanets,
And the world is a natural disaster in love with my body-
It is at first soft, until it is sure that it has overcome what I know,
And then it enjoys it monuments like cenotaphs atop of me,
The way crepuscule eats a mailbox until all of the lavender unfurls
Blooming in campfires of my uncle’s circus,
And then its sequined vests teases around the sky, stirring up
And making girls I once knew crazy and infatuated with the promises
Of an over easy quest, just so he can make love to them
Repeatedly- overjoyed, zealous- until the trumpets stampede
The sky, reveling the cavalry outfitted and running wild
In the better instruments made to take over the world.