Perfumed Into The Ephermeral Dresses Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Spelling this way, the wounded hound or bachelor,
Unaccompanied beneath all of the windmills who are replete
With her name:
They dress up the hillside and spin and spin, like very
Simple Ferris Wheels
Hung up in the adulterous winds; and this is the way they sing to
Me,
And make me drunken, so I dropp my gun, and hang beneath the trains,
Watching my wishes pullulate and the pop rockets
To come down and lay beside me:
Panting cenotaphs,
They tell stories of the stained glass windows of churches,
And that they got so high up as to see the top ornaments of
The Christmas trees;
And their hearts sung and whistled, until the farer winds left them,
And they became the foundlings of airplanes;
And thus here they lay, like little boys fallen from an endless sky
Never to return again;
And we can almost see the ships turning on their noses
And burning,
Burning: and the windmills churning, churning, perfumed into the
Ephemeral dresses by which they so sing.