The Opened Throats Of Song Birds Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It is always appalling to think up the weathers over
The far titted fields,
While the cars filled with tourists make their merry and are
Always growing up to take on
Greater retinues: and then there is the sphinx you have to
Cross before to become the hero,
And apple orchards asleep with the bees of wisdom:
Her hand as clean as milk lying outside the roots
Of some carriage,
And vampires with the little darlings singing like the open
Throats of mailboxes all ready for their lovers
Who are coming with the fall sales of this suburbia’s
Wedding promises,
Doing way with the promises and the soft light of
Kitchens, dousing if you will the opened throats of song birds.