The Overeager Sky Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Sunshine came, or at least she admitted to the lie:
If she came, freckled on the long strong
Tie of a rattlesnake’s perplexity:
All of its aching venom curling up in the pitchfork
Of a tongue,
Eagerly lying in the armpits of Satan,
And trying to form newish verbs from its storming
Soul,
Heading around like a windmill- sticking things into
Her- the old fairgrounds
Of no one else we have to believe, bartering:
Getting things in return- like the beautiful fences overgrown
And spilling with fat scuppernongs of professors who
Water ski stumbled upon by pubescent runaways:
Now like the gifts for abusive foxes down in
The silent pastures-
Like barefooted bootleggers- and the teal pleasures of the
forget-me-nots of graveyards:
They don’t have to go so far, just up the soft necks of
Peninsulas where the other explorers vanished so far before
Them,
Taking turns disappearing under the loosely constructed ice:
The trees around them laying back and
Disappearing under the earth, like windmills who have
Finished and almost vanished from lunch,
Getting rewarded as their mothers, so often like stewardesses,
Vanish again into the overeager sky.