How Full Of This Knowledge Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Her high school is at the top of the hill like a church
The boys are always falling down from like marbles and
Breaking themselves against one another,
The bigger ones making a mess of the smaller and laughing about it:
And she stands above them like a glass object on stilts;
And she has given her hands up to the sky to
Undress her:
And he does and then he comes down upon her like a nursery
Of kittens,
Her areolas sparking with the wonderment of the minutiae of
The crystals of an orchard blessed by a basilisk:
Her sweat gives of cities of bachelors who really know nothing
From nowhere about where they live
As they roll like gentle curses down her; and it really is so pleasant
That she makes a mess of everything all day,
And not a plane as the balls to shine anywhere above her:
The stars hang down like over watered grapes until they are as
Dangerous as power lines nettled in the aftermath of
A truancy of hurricanes; and none of it makes any since;
And I am like something without a backbone struck up beneath her,
Showing my guts like a disaster of coloring books,
Because that is I how full of this knowledge I have become.