The Ethereal Turnstiles Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Resins over the four corners of the earth, and
Mexican hands picking watermelons- supposing this was
Always where they were meant to show up:
Busses leaving high schools and disappearing down familiar
Roads-
Running through the smoke of chalk and seashells, trying
To raise up some god just to pass the time until they can get
Home to the trailer park of their
Television:
With the sky as rich as a snow pea: as slender and fragile,
With the airplanes smoking through
The ethereal turnstiles.