In The Wind Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am the only one who
Org*sms
An origami jungle
Screaming in papier-mâché
Vertebrates
Where the sun is a paper
Plate
Burning orange-flamed lips
At the picnic,
Turn to curling ash in the whispering
Grass,
As something like 10,000
Army ants march past,
The pomegranate armored conquistadors
Of a luscious past,
Looking for the fabled city
Through the bladed forest,
All that wealth fallen from my sticky
Splayed fingers, piano players
Stretching out from my slumbering palm,
Made entirely from sweet vermillion
Watermelon
Which glistens in ruby pyramids
In butchered geometry toward the sun,
Circled by gossiping horseflies
Who are taking a walk
In the wind.