My Religion Of Many Saturnine Fables Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I drink to my religion of many saturnine
Fables,
In the architectures of woebegone galaxies sung
By the eagles in their patriotic
Aeries,
High up in the clouds of yesterday, and those
Green summits
Whose august cradles the birds sing in
And making love;
And in which I find you waking up with me,
Your eyes the Bosque of brown butterflies,
Your body a religious symbol all folded up like
A kite asleep;
And we don’t have to do anything, but turn into
One another, the way our mammalian gravities
Are attracting
To kiss and to sing.