Sweet Young Aeroplanes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Whiskey is good in the bare-assed parks of
Absolute blindness,
And if you were here with me right now
You would be so tall and beautiful
It would take several men just to deliver your
Mail,
But I would try to give you every gift ever made
With your birthstone,
While the waves set out and licked the feet of
Early crosses
Where strange young pedestrians had to die
Out walking underneath the Spanish forts
Forever,
Or for a very long time, and I only know so many words,
And the bicycles are so lonely. They sit forever
Right in the sad and lonely garages of high school
English teachers,
Just like I sit out underneath the prayer flags and ghosts
Of sweet citrus
And dream of pressing my hips up against girls name
S-, but if she was really there she would absolutely
Destroy me,
So I continue walking alone, zigzagging down and then
Straight up again:
I’ve been to the Colorado river in the grand and juicy cut
At least three times,
And each time it is like bringing all of my senses up against
Your wrist
And asking for sweet tips from your insouciant cloisters,
Like punches and pedals of stars
Who don’t really know how beautiful they are
So far and high do they bloom their sorority that they even
Rest their bare heads at night underneath the
Moist and transitory tips of the wings of
Sweet young aeroplanes.