The Many Canals Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It is easy and I echo:
I’ve been plowing my field, and now I storm:
I look up into the stars of many fields who are not my own:
How many of them have been playing baseball,
But what is the use to sound the alarm,
Now that the witches are in the sky, belly up, counting the elbows
Of chalk,
And there isn’t anything else to move: the planets are in their backlots
Showing no shame,
Marionetting for the damsels who are truly, truly to blame:
And I am drifting:
Drifter out of all sorts; all of my diamonds on their own fields, showing
Just the shallowest curtains while the blue gills hold their own
Breathes,
And the tenements come, accumulating their numbers: none of them
More humble than the sum of their women, and the airplanes
Arise, filibustering like longwinded fireworks:
They arise like sideways monuments to their own fields:
They groom themselves, and then they lie naked in bed except for their
Elements:
And they await for me- across the many canals skipping in their
Fairy tales: they await for me.