The Airy Cylinders Poem by Robert Rorabeck
The Airy Cylinders
Basking in the glowing death,
The pantomimes surrender to our health.
My house looks beautiful when you look it
In the mouth,
And from here you can go down the stairs
To anywhere:
The fields of venison that are still alive,
Like the basic moats for estranged lovers,
Or the ghosts of fast moving cars
And it all seems so tenderly surreal
As I lift the airy cylinders to my lips
And pretend again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/25/2024 10:43:22 PM # 1.0.0.1119
