They Go Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Orchards in the high towers that a glove is reaching for,
While a chimney smokes
And the oven employs its implore;
This is an exemplary machine meant to weep, and tell you
About what it is that I mean,
Like ripples on a lake, and creases in the sheen:
Like a birthday cake brought out before a church of ruby
Glass filled with animals that are in love
Or at least hypnotized; and I suppose that I have reminded you
Of those fields atop of which the airplanes fly so low;
And where they are going, I suppose even they don’t know:
But look at them: they are almost gone,
So make a wish as they go: they go.