The Creche Of Airplanes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The mountains now are without female hearts:
Above tree-line,
So well and empty,
With the moonlight spilling into the recesses
Of wind-abused stones;
And here I wait for her in secret meetings
Which I can never be sure they happen:
In body I am down below,
I am below traffic, below shopping malls;
But my soul-fish floats, swims,
Gurgles, runs pink gilled fibrillating around her
Naked shoulder blades-
Has things it wants to share with her-
Has things to take to her far over the wild,
Tremulous plum trees,
Over the rock gardens of captured grandmothers
Where the membranous clutches of soft-bellied
Snakes quiver;
Wants to summit with her while the other hikers are
Down past the holly roosts,
Down in their cerulean tents, making love,
Afraid of bears:
Making it here atop the world looking down at the
Mica-ed splash of strange, despondent cities
Where I have called her up from;
Touching my finger to the underbelly of her temple,
And around her sensuous ear,
Telling her things that would be otherwise senseless.
Now that she has come, like the metamorphosis
Of pollinated flowers into the tender fruit bowed on ever
Stem,
Weighted nearer the crèche of airplanes, throbbing
With the nectar of my wounds.