The First Honeys Of Our Children Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You are pillaging with your cherry lips in
Autumn,
As the tigers feel homeless amidst the aspen:
And the tinkering buildings of blind men continue pell-mell
Up the throat of the hurdy-gurdy mountain,
But finally I have lived while all of the clouds were sleeping into
The shapes of whatever dreams:
It felt so warm, the bodies playing like bumper cars across the
Higher basins,
And making love, and cross pollinating, dripping the first honeys
Of our children,
And making love.