The First Star Of Morning Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am always going back to the swings,
Collecting the motions they give,
The petting of the vermilion air after crepuscule,
Smoking the perfume of jet planes,
Thinking of the girl I love in the black neighborhood
Of the unfamiliar stars;
And the clouds traffic where I go, where the helicopters
Buzz as if in the séance of heirlooms;
And I wish you could see yourself there,
As I see you, as I take you out of your classroom
And dust the crop of sky- giving it all back to you, a playground
For your swimming, uncaring of the graveyards
That your feet could never touch,
If you happened to trust me and took my hand we could
Always be children setting out in the motions of
Just one curious space, like two lovers in bed,
Curious in the breathless foreplays, devouring each other
In abominable playrooms, sailing in big brass beds
Always towards the first star of morning.