The Same Gods Of Light Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I sleep under the ridges of carports, Indians panting over
Me, purple or vermilion:
And when they get out, I watch them from down the tawny necks
In the wet laps of the cannon,
Like an ant lion as they build their doll houses on their slopes,
And have vertical parades:
And the smoke signals that they give when they are in the
Right mood,
There is no word to describe them: their sundials are the opulence
That puts the modern erudites to shame:
They feed their newborns the yellow tears of the sun which
They grind up and fling under bicycles who are having
The identity crisis of windmills;
And they grow up on the brown tits of the their cousins,
Never taking to monogamy,
They sway in the higher declivities, and in the rope tricks that they
Contrive to show the conveniences of the evaporations of water:
The girl I love is among them, and she never looks at me:
I am like a window that is never used, or was never imagined
To be there but is;
And though she never sees me, going up and down like the prenatal
Servant of a fairytale in the golden strata above my head,
I know that she loves me: for her alma is my very soul,
And there is something towards the prove in divine providence that
We should both survive together equally in separate worlds
Draped together by the same gods of light.