That Milk Through The Clouds Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am a pessimist as sunlight spurs underneath the gallop:
And the waves spear like Siamese angels up against
The shore:
The fort of our wedding rises to the herons,
Leering with green copper heads for many months
Across the ambivalent plot of the dead
Prostitute,
As I bight my lip and wonder where the windmills are:
As the children sing softly on the busses-
Going home from school,
Their ice-cream melting, and a new art in their eyes
They will forget by the time they get home-
When they close their eyes, they will sleep
Underneath the heavens,
Like a saturnalia of jupiters sleeping underneath the overpasses
That scribble the angels across the highways
That milk through the clouds forever wondering when
You will be home.