Like Glass Blowers Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Words in the bottom of a brook,
Counting stones and looking backwards at the fish
Swimming up stream
Changing classes in this part of America:
Up in the sun: nosebleeds, airplanes,
And stranded visitors who will die victorious
While mothers sip wine in their yards
And look across a street of roller skates,
Entirely ignoring the heads of the serpents batched
Into the landscaping and boiling their young
Through the cedar chips:
Moving in a particular void that burns with ruby light,
In an entire city hypnotized
And enjoying the somnambulating of a bed that weeps
As the moths crowd the windows
Slapping their lips to her like glass blowers who
Will never reveal the secret ingredients of what
They do not know how to say.