Magnifying Boxes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The cars come so tragically far away from their hallucinations:
I salivate over the candy apples of a fair that moved
Away in January:
And a girl named Diana comes to my supermarket every morning,
But I hide from her in my trailer park until she has lit away,
And I am as free as a terrapin to come out again,
And dream of her incandescently all day,
While the sky makes my thought brigade for her; and her daughter
Coos in little rooms of air-conditioning;
And I mop up the soft floor under pine trees, and pet the sour bellies
Of purring water moccasins; and I think little upon girls in
Oregon, or sick muses in Colorado, because they have already had
Their fill,
While the cat kisses the firemen in the overgrowth of life-saving
Aloe,
And I think upon what beauty the sea has washed against my doorstep;
And when she comes again, I will hide from her as well as I may,
Until she has gone again, and I can bask in the burning residues
That such a heavenly body leaves as she makes her
Avenues too close against the bacheloring neighborhoods of the
Indescribable day, like the very ancestors playing with a tool chest of
Matches and magnifying boxes in the buxom and comely hay.