Flights Of Leafless Fancy Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Now all swing-sets speak in
A singsong way.
Now all the stars glisten from the
Fangs of rattlesnakes inside
Bottles of rum- For she has led the
Battle out into the occupied breath,
As I piss and water the venal flowers in
The ankle-deep grass;
The castles of America are stolen from the
Jungles of Bavaria,
As her eyes are castaway upon the boreal gyms.
We found the evidence in your brother’s room
Before he could escape to kiss the lips of a visiting
Swann- And I am apolitical, but your legs
Make you my queen, and when you bend them
To go somewhere,
Don’t you create a sisterhood of swishing motion
Which makes me tremble,
But just as cuckolded men are afraid to step out
Of the waves to buy cups of ice-cream,
So am I certain that your lips are the illusion of
Man’s approach to god,
As if I was to reach you, moon-audience,
Would lose all sense of reality- become a flightless
Loon. Yes, and I’m proud of it.