Even While The Sky Was Hurry Hurry Down Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Existing here in the farfetched algorithms of
Gut shot aeroplanes-
Running around speechless like an overwrought
Marionette
Trying to be scalped by Indians who are not even
Sure they exist themselves,
Until it is time for lunch: pretty girls curling with
Their own enchantments
About the may, may grasses, where each warm animal
Has a surname and feminine hands to
Hold him as if his heart were in a pink nest
And everything was fine even while the sky was
Hurrying down.