The Penny's World Of Hollow Bones Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If you are standing with the beautiful people,
Aping beneath the lavender sun:
How will you hear me
Read you the thirtieth canto:
How will you know the way out,
And through the windmill’s legs:
The lines in Virgil’s palm,
The summit of purgatory:
If you are brushing your alabaster hair
On your grandmother’s terrace,
Counting the hatchings of migratory hummingbirds,
The penny’s world of hollow bones,
And I am on the trellis bighting my lip,
Thinking about falling through the clouds,
How will you know that I am supposed to be beneath you:
When the ride starts to begin,
The concentricity of learning to fly,
Like two wounded siblings caught in a game,
Where it was so easy for you to begin to shop around,
The complicated marketplaces of inebriation
Locked away in a basement,
I am running my fingers over a feeling
I can’t seem to find the meaning of:
But at least I am calling you like a medium,
I see you jogging around the periphery
Of a stranger’s last name,
And I would cry out to you to come back again,
Before the storm remembers to bury my voice.