The Flight Path Of So Many Airplanes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Wimples and areolas of a zoetrope in the kitchen:
There she goes doing her own
Thing again, turning, turning while the commercials
And the rains come on,
With the conquistadors underneath her canals
Where will they go now, the sunlight like a grandmother
For them, and their graveyard right under the
Flight path of so many airplanes leaving like bottles
Tossed into the sea and stewardesses filled up to the
Neck with words I meant to share with her that can never
Be saved.