Into Rust Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Here is a bedroom as rich as a rose garden to lay you
Down in,
Underneath the cockpits of illustrious and busy men,
Calling out to the fields of wonder all above the make believes
Of the clouds,
Burning in airy splendor, pinwheels to the more porous gods:
Latching on to the spokes of
Bicycles who in willing their own metamorphosis learned
To fly,
And so kissed the sunny streets of sunny kids goodbye:
And took to here, and took to there,
And swam like runny Mandela’s through a Buddhism of
Sky,
Until the feelings were given away as gifts, and their reasons
Answered their lonely bodies marching on lighthearted skiffs;
And it somehow happened that they all marched up
Here,
Where the rockets glamour and the corporeal jackets of
Glades and volatile roller coasters disappear,
Blinded by a cardinal in his dreams, kissed into blindness
By a church,
Giving the Eucharist to lungs as they spill over breathlessly,
Albinos in the rattlesnake strata of a cannibal king,
Forest as pitched and long as a folklore of witchcraft that collects
The failed wishes of downed airplanes like coins in a well
Whose wishes always bleed into rust, and never heal.