Monsoon's Blue Operators Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Rain lays jubilance upon these hills,
Lays down like sated fauns in indescribable clefts,
And the bellies of Amazons who have sunken single breasted
Into the panting grottos;
In what ways they make pattering love, I cannot
Describe, except for out my windows, and from my
Doors, the rain is wetting the high-heeled pines as
Women in open showers, great sororities dimly cleaned,
And each one immobile from their relationship with
The downpouring storm, raise their green arms upwards,
Hands in great palming display, as the fettered clouds
Blockade the last of a feverish light, and let the skies
Play down against their statuesque spines,
Say now that they shall not move from his slathering spits,
Say that they should live beyond this cloudy centennial,
Where the rumors of spiteful fire are shushed,
And even rattlesnakes are tapped into a kind of poisonous
Slumber, as the rains gather and ruin the cheeks of the
Swaybacked hills, the inky mascaras dying the micas
And the uncleaned jewels which hide in petrified clutches,
As the rains try furtively to hatch what doesn’t call from
The forest’s webby and saturnine nest.