The Blowing Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The colors who appease us, stay naked as the sun
Rides across them all day,
And the foliage curls like the tongues of little deer
For the salt of innocent palms,
Even while we are making up excused for how
All of this came to be;
And we cannot see mountains from where we are,
And we can only suspect to smell the orange groves
And yet we know that they both really are;
Standing up to them, and holding the raptures
Of the indescribable prisms which make up
All these things which move
And combust, and they turning alluringly like games
For sweethearts in a celestial midway,
As the bums frolick nakedly, panhandling in all that
Alike glory of the pollinated airs to breathe,
I can see now the pass ways by which we must come
Together and to be aware of through
The invisibilities; and by this I ride the fates to kiss
You like a wetted superhero across the blowing wildfires
Of our dreams.