Cousin Windmills Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Sensuous wound, you are my cleft hoofed soldier
And this is your penny-ante cathedral—
The little boys are gathering up their marbles for you,
And their dimes:
They are shooting the b.b. guns at their little sisters
All in honor for you—
And the day is young and getting over chicken pox—
There is a nest of pig rattlers in the palmettos—
Your father is hard at work clearing them out—
Later in the afternoon, there will be a complex storm,
That will cast an unusual shade of blue onto all of
The cypress: the cause of it will be the penumbra of
All of the stewardesses flying ever so high
Until they are finally gossiping and doing their
Laundry in a sun shower—they are the only sorority
Up there—they managed to make it above the
Ferris wheels and their cousin windmills—
They spread their wings and illuminate the porticos—
Like decorations of an arrow shooting over
A sweating hearth.