Of Fruit Trees The Airplanes Crisscrossed Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Becoming a joy to those burning cathedrals you
Cannot wake up from—
Flying away into your elements, lactating over the ashen fields—
A single horse stammering your epiphany,
Frightened that you are not yet part of the unreal—
Beautiful, ephemeral and made to collect
Down at the base of the mountains where once the
Grizzly bears roamed, walking on their hind feet and
Talking to butterflies—knowing nothing of the simpler joys in
Each place—dividing in the cells of the nursery rhymes of
The first born—
Who shine like pearls in the keyholes of mountains—
Until you found another man you pretended to
Know
And made love to him underneath the stepladders of
Your favorite uncles leading up through the bowers
Of fruit trees the airplanes crisscrossed
Like lovers trying to keep ahead of the heavenly bodies
That were falling to the ground.