The Sun's Golden Curiosity Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If this new day becomes unhinged by the
Sun’s golden curiosity,
Then we will be able to see again from
The seats of grounded airplanes,
Perspiring upon the cerulean canvas,
Her eyes so far away never opening but in sleep,
Her lips the drunken dictionary men call out
Up and down the Mississippi River
To mark water depth and dangerous flotsam,
Her legs the sleeping gazelles on the savannas
Of her humid bed;
If the sun looks at us again,
Opens the growing music box of men’s woes,
Our destinations encased in a fabriche egg,
The high schools of our lives’ meaningful desire,
The Ferris-Wheel of planets and pulsars trapped
In a tortoise’s teal plating
As he tastes the nebula’s sweet orchid,
The yoke our protein centrifuge,
The whirligig of rest into motion;
Then she will spend another day with us on
This little knickknack of a home;
The delicate front yard which ants run out into,
Neither expectant or aware of our infinitive connection
Nesting in the sailor’s sun doused palm.