Into The West Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Boys, as they are lost turn narcoleptic:
Counting the crooks of trees and all of the ways down,
The weeps and tinctures of sunlight that expose
Housewives to the foxes who leap for their wine;
And the world is good, in its real places,
Its architectures of lawns, the chessboard of canals that
Hedge into them so many fairytales:
The slender bridges for the goats, the very first words that
Laid me off the tits and eventually put hair on my chest:
And now they are riding back and forth like censers
In a church:
The purple day looks out through the windows and feels so
Sorry for the cars;
The fireworks shoot their arrows, and burn in the green outdoors:
And it is a holiday, or at least it has been blessed,
And all of the angels strum their guitars as they get undressed into
The west.