The Mouth Of The Lukewarm Python Poem by Robert Rorabeck

On arches of chains we go back and forth
Trying to survey from the tops of pine trees,
To see what the goblins are selling under the moon,
What new languages are being written by
The elaborate hallucinations of helicopters,
And younger sisters who are really wishing wells,
Fluming ingénues from the backs of sugar gliders;
And god is there, or his close cousin, and in the language
Of his post-colonial incest, a coral snake is milking
His wrist between this sway of the clouds and the moon-
There are more than several levels of stratum up to
His room; and his eyes are gone, but we won’t be getting to
Him:
This is just the séance of our out of doors room-
The pools are skipping beside us like uneven diamonds,
Or as blue as the reflection of the blue bird’s eye
Coming into the crepuscule in the mouth of the lukewarm
Python.