Like Tears Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Wounded by my feather light sport,
Perfumed by arrows of bouquets, and skipping school
Across the canals:
Little otters there diademing the canoes’ prows-
And the long yawns of lions turning deeper golden in
The cage with the butterflies-
Wounded angels taking airplanes to look at the sun,
Basking like nude carrion in the upper echelons:
Why their father is there bowing the ties-
As down from his heaven, like tears, the fire dies.