The Backyards Of These Patios Poem by Robert Rorabeck

People so slip and weave their memories
Among these tombs,
Amongst these bandits of showy gold:
And the day lights up like a dog, like a place I have
Never seen;
And the skin is so golden on the sheets of music.
The skin is so golden as blue gills, or their lovers of gold fish,
That this is just as they told it:
This is just as they were going the counterparts to our
Faerie story:
The male and the female, going, flipping in the transoms of
High altitude Ferris Wheels and circus stories;
And the days mount around,
And make love to themselves without a sound;
And I ride my bicycles home, all day long pretending not to roam:
And the city flits, and the city divides,
Like precious stories with precious insides:
These hidden wombs, like luscious gems reside in the seats
Of amphitheatres,
Or the troops of souls who slip like the hidden saints stealing even
More fireworks through the backyards of these
Patios.