Through The Weepless Boughs Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Sabbaticals of nothing- the world slips around in a
A high fever,
Ostriches and unicorns sweat off their spells, and uniform
Airplanes seem to float
While I lay on my back and wonder if I could touch each one,
Like bottle rockets in a confection of the very air:
And around all of that is the sea,
And the girls I’ve lost, and then when I am hungry and feeling
Alone and far away
There seems to be the hope of ships, each one of them immolating
In the night,
Their banners rippling like leaps of phosphorous over the sad
Currents,
Or I suppose that it happens that way while I lay on my back
And moan my unintelligible expressions up through the
Weepless boughs,
And the world turns around, devouring itself.