The Hypnotisms That The Chickens Made Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Glad as the cowbells that sparkle into rust
Over an epiphany of Mexico,
Like airplanes looking in at the best of us
Down in the low grounds of the playgrounds that half
Abused us while we were skipping school and
Trying to run away- growing our beards
Into the sea- nests for the birds to come and swim,
Little murals in our eyes that made our
Neighbors and our peers jealous- why then all of
The ruby lights took off for a holiday,
And vanquished through the corridors the knights
Parade:
Into the glades of witches as rich as vermilion marmalade
And there, careening over the kidnapped walls
The long necks of windmills
Scattering the dressing rooms of a sultry orchard’s
Blooms across the rickety ghosts who themselves go
Fluttering like overused weathervanes
And banshee bridesmaids make an eerie patina across
The saturated guts of the pythons bending down
The playground’s bows as they digest the hypnotisms
That the chickens made.