The Greeting Card Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Another soft sound meant to have
Been here,
But is this joy: the blue gills in the middle of
The day are not caught with any rum-
As the stewardesses fly
In leaps and bounds over the canals—
They are lifting their skirts and blowing out
Candles and stepping away—
Over the professors and over the sea:
They will go to make love with
Men in France or men upon another world:
Men who have learned wings themselves,
Or foxes who have finally jumped too
Far that they float over the grape vines
Like bedrooms—and they laugh, nip,
And suck the teet of the moon
Who joins them languidly, perhaps expecting
The greeting card that will send them home.