The Dry And Rusting Pines Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Now they have them cadillacs filled with
The various pornographies underneath of where
The airplanes live,
.Just as my muse has her families in the buried
Streets that the sun mows:
And she goes to work five days a week,
Just as I go to work,
And the angels walk in plain clothes- but sometimes
The gypsies also come to town,
And the heavens boil above them, turning our
Confections into liquor across the empty planes,
Just as she skips in her diminutive ways,
Angel of brown body and brown stems, over the
Estuaries where the otters and cotton mouths live-
And I spin like a firework home to my
Mother and the shells of vanishing crustaceans
Into a new sort of tenement across the forgotten sorts
Of holly and underneath the dry and rusting pines.