The Honeydew Of The Moon Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Virgins cut from the paper of paper airplanes:
Sleeping there like motherless goddesses across the
Impolite street- holding the rude and vulgar
Prisms of light-
Like kaleidoscopes up to their chests: kissing families
Of grizzly bears and eating their
Porridge in turn,
And then making their way across the canal:
While underneath their phosphorous skirts
The blue gills live like pilgrims
Carrying their make believe prayers across the
Fiascos of stolen bicycles:
And if I was just a little boy still, I would hold inside
Me some way of remembering,
And I would still have hope of making it through
The forest and to a home somewhere between the cypress
Drooling the lost yesterdays of katydids and spent
Bottle rockets to a mother who still held a light for me,
And to a father who kept lookout,
Sleeping like a sailor on the roof and, openmouthed,
Feeding off the honeydew of the moon.