Lips Of Busy Ants Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Acrobats of Spanish glasses,
Of peat most that feed the sod and grasses:
I broke my jaw,
I broke my glasses; and the winters came and
Beat our asses:
And you sang; and you awakened; and you jangled,
And with the stories of your comely bangs
Entangled
The world in an angelical séance of archangels;
And I pushed you on the swings of very same angles;
And you swam through the void azure of your world,
That really is just another womb;
And your cherry toenails kicked up like runaways putting
Their noses into the armpits of pine trees;
Your hair was a yellow weathervane;
And my knuckles cracked along your shoulder blades:
And in my mind I entered the wind tunnels of Spain with
You on Christmas day,
And we chased Olga’s guitar into the south of France
Both of us couldn’t play;
And we sang dirges to the lips of busy ants;
Which was our punishment, anyways.