Bouquets Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Standing in a blue abscess, wounded around
The eyes:
The nocturnal pugilists counting imps,
And the gates awash with freezing water
The blue spruce cried-
And other planes coaxing down: inside their
Golden necks, their stewardesses all
Asleep-
The weather about them a blanket that pulls
At them softly,
The sea, a mother waiting in the deeps-
While each pine tree rises just for them,
Nocturnal spectators in the senses of the hills:
And they go over them, nodding in
Sorority,
As the hillsides sigh, damply drunken,
And holding up to them bouquets.