Like Golden Cornfields Wreathing Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Antelope in the rose bushes
Tangled around the slopes of tomfoolery:
There they are, prizes lost
For lovers,
Underneath the infernal jet liners
Who are going all the time
To the orient,
And leaving over the moon and the
Pacific Ocean
As the butterflies get lost in Mexico:
And the stewardesses upon them become, somehow,
Cheap angels of another
Dream- and their pilots, like their demigods,
Are underpaid but well nourished
With their bottles
The geniis have succeeded from:
And the highways lie tangled beneath them,
The wolves running freely-
The mountains yellow and crooning
With Chanticleer somewhere in the armpits
And their antlered cuckoldry growing down their
Slopes like golden cornfields,
Wreathing, that the heavens shine upon.