All Of The Airplanes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Dying to begin,
Just as any angels underneath the weathers of the
Mountains:
This is how we sing out, waiting for the caracoles
To finally sing again,
Rising, at first, up above the weathered monuments
Into which we cannot possibly hope
To believe in,
Falling out through the ashes of the water fountains,
Even while all of our parents have finally
Decided to grow up:
This is just another sad number, while you are just
Another ghost I presupposed to
Believe in;
And this is just another element into which
Are presupposed beliefs
Have finally decided to believe in:
This is a settled calm, and this is just another
Way to distinguish ourselves, multiplied-
But our gardens sing to no one, pretending that
They are, perhaps beautiful- as another night
Proceeds to fill up, all together, the
Habitual loneliness underneath the leaping pages of
All of the airplanes.