Letters From The Mailboxes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Clouds the color of young gods
Leaping or breathed from the lips of a plum eating Dragon
Like mist rising from a petit lake from a land where
The castle is missing
And the lovers are left in peace: here they are,
Foxes tangled with tomato vines dripping with
Destructive sport.
They look as if they could be cousins of truants
Eagerly lost on a road this is hard to fool,
Kidnappers of tortoises who cry into the wombs of
Limestone where the stolen bicycles live,
And the august pines remain swaying, swaying
Coated in the unbelievable memories of Katydids
The nurse maids of paper dolls and rusting cars,
As tadpoles wait in the ovens of canals
And the monarchs return from the south to
The north making graveyards out of
Estuaries along the way
Their children like their own paper tears unfolded
Out of chrysalis and made to
Walk the zoetrope of dusk, their magnetisms just
The whispers of lost girls vanished like missing
Letters from the mailboxes of their yards,
Who manage to find the wet throats of the lovers
Who knew perpetually where they belonged.