Out In The Silent Planet Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I have nothing new to say:
The sky is a furnace;
The sky is a womb:
There are still Victorian astronauts
Abducting unsuspecting philologists
Inside their oaken ships
As round as footballs:
There are planets with different names,
And places to go where silence is
All that there is....
My hand remains a crooked harp,
Crooning for you,
Strumming outwards into the fields
Of modular homes and cardboard castles:
Those dreams which lay in your eyes
Like lazy roadmen:
Their handsome greens and blues,
Like cats staring unconcerned and
Half interested out from windows....
Your bosom may be bared:
A man may be suckling your bosom
With a disinterested stare;
But this is nothing I haven’t said:
I do not know the shape and
Complexity of your areolas:
But I chap my lips on the arid discoveries:
Lying on you,
Lying in the thoughtless sunlight
In the spaces that cannot change,
Hidden out in the silent planet-