The Milky Flumes The Wind Would Otherwise Have Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Call now your lords from the stage,
Because the jousting is over and someone has died;
My pretty cousin, or was it myself who has died:
Killed by the black eyeliner around her truest of greenest eyes-
Lawns mowed in the dark by serial killers and their
Butcher-knife scams;
Flamingos in their ballet stances, constantly waiting for the
Mail: Now you are here, or in a historic town,
Giving out free samples of blue-eyed ripple;
And I don’t have a chance; I don’t even have a mail route near
You, so how can I breathe:
And it is hardest on our children; I’ve made them all up
And fed them astronaut ice-cream, that their father should be
So entirely refuted by the windless answer over the flawless pools,
That their mother should be so beautiful;
So beautiful and shameless that she should absolutely not
Care to take them against her junoesque respirations,
And feed to their untried lips the milky flumes the wind would
Otherwise have.