The Days Of Their Nights Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Globe with stars and caesuras
And very little else:
Very simple world:
Child world, bring tears to my eyes,
As the busses turn around:
City underneath the sky,
City above the ground, and world
Of candy joy:
World of carousels- burning oil
Lamps like lighthouses if
Sailors were eels:
Burning through the midnight
Just for the senses of werewolves,
And they hunt inside the cathedrals
Of junked cars,
Where the naked women are
Bombshells- and they get up and jump
For unreal joy,
While the coral snakes curl around
The wrists of tinseled housewives;
And in their little cul-de-sacs they come
Around,
As the roses touch the lips of selkies
Who like butterflies have learned to give
Birth across the winsome catastrophes
Above the opulence of the playing grounds
Where the windmills
Are their joyful mothers who blow
Out the candles of their birthdays
Just as the airplanes are ever so angelically
Touching down,
Giving their bodies to the same old toys
Across the world,
Spilling out their housewives like
Diamonds, who ignite again into their very
Own houses,
As once again the very own days of their
Nights are touching down.