Men Men And Gods Gods Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Chalices hid on Easter in my backyard:
Riding bareback and never found- and now firemen
Are climbing up mountains,
And turning around with matches- in each fist
A pinwheel, or a glass container of milk-
As I burn across the Navajo Reservations north of
Gallup New Mexico,
As we all just try to figure out how to get on
A little further home:
The windmills galloping- the pilots away in the
Hayloft- the octogenarian knights eating honey bells
In the green fields who never have to offer up
Their echoes to anyone;
And yet here they come: both to churches and honeymoons-
Dripping from their bosoms, and drooling from their
Chalices that very same nectar which keeps men men,
And gods gods.