In Greening Tides Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Addicted through the sport of clouds,
All the day’s visions last until gone;
Snakes come out and are
Frightened by the blankets of sunlight the blasted
Gods make nude love to the
Housewives in the shapes of mailmen and weathervanes,
Across the acerbic vineyards
Of another suburbia’s blindsided malaise,
While the children latchkey, and get drunk under the
Crooks of the thoughtlessly transplanted cypress
Trees,
Who seem to petition the phantasms of every airplane,
Like wayfarers in greening tides of those imaginary yards.