The Tinsel Upon A Sunday Morning Christmas Tree Poem by Robert Rorabeck

How many times will you keep calling
The same horses home,
Waiting for some unrecognized god to
Identify you, to swing his
Flaming sword as a christening over
Your rusty plough—
After the automatons have stopped
In their holidays of religious love,
And all of the nocturnal animals
Are wide awake at the zoo—
And there seems to be some celestial
Beauty melting down from the mountain,
A divine personification in a
State of devolution—
At first an entire forest of sorority,
And then only a pool,
Then a heart, then an eye,
Then a leg—
Something that the tadpoles are fashioned
Of, the black semen
That have never dreamed of as Pegasus—
And there you are, the product of
An apiary whose wax has already melted
Down the runways of its penultimate sex—
As if by falling, learns to fly—
Beauty in a tailspin sure to meet
The casual greetings of the earth—
The birds of prey above you taking your family
Name—
The Virgin of Guadalupe hanging from
Your dashboard,
The streamers from your handlebars just as beautiful
As the tinsel upon a Sunday morning Christmas tree.