The Caracoling Amusements Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Distilled into Mexico, the birds quiver:
There is nothing curious about their fleece; they are done,
And hung-over- they can hear the voices of
Viscous lovers speaking all throughout the wires
At their feet:
When they remember the water fountains of little
Boys lushed off their bicycles so near the circling dunes,
Then what will they do? But speak out loud to one another
As the trucks come,
So wide and beautiful and pressed like faith to the Earth,
Rolling on toward their particular definitions;
And then they know that they shouldn’t move, for soon it
Will be Christmas, and the sun will shine down
Like an obese angel across the chattering church, and the words
That they have had to mimic to distant lovers will no longer
Hurt them,
As the tigers multiply so vigorously across the rolling steps
Beneath them, tumbling out like kittens,
Their hearts pattering like the caracoling amusements of a fair
That never has to move by itself again.