In The Skies Of Skies Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Oh so you know that the boundaries shoot of like
Gloriously indigenous fireworks: green and green things,
And the old man in the sea, and love letters:
I misspelled my face between her legs and repeated the
Transoms inside her until she moaned and she thought of me;
And then there were werewolves in the darkness and
Better writers,
And silly things: Stephen King go f%ck yourself: I am your king,
And the planets divide like unhealthy pies,
And I can still look down her blouse from where I live:
And her kitchen is golden and well kept:
She keeps on going down her racetrack of endives,
Which is just something else I have rightly learned to spell;
And the road is still on a dirt track,
And the animals are still talking to me, keeping a neighborly feeling
With one another:
And the families grow fat after stealing all of my father’s feeling;
And the city is on display like a diamond which in the school is my
Birthstone, spinning, spinning in the mall of fault lines;
And now all the women have fallen in line because they want to cast
Their bets on the fireman who is as tall as any god;
And soon they will be right, and I will be down;
And I will be meat for the Zoroastrians; and the ancestors will know
My name as the pick their beaks and work out to the disenfranchised
Junos in the skies of skies.