The Ancient Engravings Of Indians Poem by Robert Rorabeck

When my head is beating with rum,
And you have captured
All of the butterflies and metamorphosed
The song birds
Into something less
On Christmas or
Chinese new years: then this will be just
Another song
Collected out of bliss—
As rain collects in the gutters, and sunlight gathers
In her nude pools—
And you can go home to vermillion yards
And fireworks and open windows
And all of it that is given can be a poem or
A wound
That the airplanes fly to as if to an apiary:
And my stewardesses can have all of their hearts
On string like popcorn,
And become a zoo, a Saturnalia of blue eyed
And breasted harvest—
And the sunlight will fall softly into the reasons of
The foothills
With the coyotes and the ancient engravings of
Indians and then I will swear to you that we
Will never have to go to school tomorrow
And waking up, my love will never have to
Remember any of this.