Skirts Of Stewardesses Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Skirts Of Stewardesses



Light falling through a keyhole as a voice
That echoes of the airplanes it has passed—
Under the skirts of stewardesses that
I imagine smell like roses—
Falling down through the highest bivouacs—
And across where the boy scouts have fallen to
Their deaths:
Corpses in the green crops where the elk
Have shed their antlers—
Pick them up and it is like the sound of
Katydids brushing against the bare naked mountains,
Or another ululation for the plagiarists—
Giving up all of their disingenuous gifts as if that
Was all there was to give.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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