The Reason For Its Rings Poem by Robert Rorabeck

And I will go up into another busied architecture
Listening to all of the kissing bees
In their bad architectures around the scarab knees
Over the mountains where
The stewardesses sing: and this is their song, mindless over
The mineraled overpasses—
Over all of the jaded architectures—over all of the busied
And receded reservoirs,
As I go up blindly bachelored—as she is trying to figure out
Herself, herself, whilst it is still save,
And the dogs make their own rounds over the railroad
Tracks and over Easter,
As they are paid to do—as another doe flights lightly over
The snow that is melting into its nurseries of a hullaballoo—
Until, finally, this is the reason of its baseball,
And so
So many of its things: this is the reason for its diamonds—as
I am afraid—
This is the reason for its rings.