That Makes A Perfect Symmetry Of Her Silver Shoulders Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Yellow day how you shed like serpent skin
In the brush tantalizing a wildfire yet to come
Sparked off the wheels of
Some fleeing mother; but how pale you are in
Comparison to the chartreuse of
A butterfly who gets lost inside you,
And tangled at your mouth in a graveyard of bicycles-
All through the school day, she must lay there
Panting brainless- a little thing painted above
The vast pornography, while just off in the
Corner the yards with their pools glint their
Reasons to her, like faberche mirages- and they
Dance in a blind zoetrope, and the things lighter
Than air weigh her down like a boulder in the breasts
Of a wildflower- while the airplanes
Fly above, the little boys being ticketed by a very
Important man who walks down the row
That makes a perfect symmetry of her silver shoulders.