The Night Flows From It Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Little tricks like silken web spume from the thorax:
Her eyes are oleander, they make patterns under the school
Bus, awakening and closing.
The airplanes are diamond birds with frozen wings who
Never fall,
Only the truants know this echoing forever scarred upon
The swings,
Eclipses of bodies doing their bit to sell candy bars,
Her mouth opens for his fingers, five or twelve,
A handful and then some, but the carpet has just been
Vacuumed.
Lying down, so close to ants, the window looks like a
Very blue stairwell right over to Pablo Neruda. The eyes quiver
To see the South America poet making love tonight,
Biting a hang nail and signing greeting cards.
Above his head, the roof a pyramid little boys summit,
Giggling, their hands splayed over crypt orchid fireworks
To expulse into the spotty void. The king doesn’t even know how
They will crown him, looking into his celebratory ochre,
The backyard pool veined with gold effluvious- Or the boys
Above, what do they know, except that they weigh about
The same as all the hummingbirds in north America;
And the bottle is warm, and the night flows from it.