The Weather In Which He Comes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I can line up things and squinting shoot:
Knights will hang from their trees crackling like clams,
Like mailboxes waiting for the mail;
And I can line up things to sell:
Everyday bodies returning to their mausoleums, bodies of blue
Bells but also pure joy,
Boys in wheelchairs, girls in curls and weaves:
The darker their skins are the smaller the houses, but also the
Closer to the seas:
And I wake up on the Gold Coast and listen to the beating of
Spears on shields;
And I can look out my window to see the cradle of hurricanes
Because that is where they are birthing,
Curling like water snakes soon to slip across the yard underneath
Her heels:
They go so far away to kiss her mouth, as she lounges outside
Open bloused like a weather vane,
Lips bending like wildflowers smelling the weather in which he
Comes.