The Precious Things Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Calling up a new sandy pilot
Where there are girls going down
Like sticks in a river
That cannot drown; so airy and so free,
Like a hyperborean park
Where families of bears sleep in amidst
Gorgeous flowers
That you never wore to prom:
Where the ceiling fans are waltzing in synchronicity:
The architectures of clocks see no reason to mend,
And everything is perceived from the distance,
A man on his spires like the first star of
The unreachable evening,
Galvanized into crepuscule how he defies the city
States and their platitudes of habitats;
And when he lights off his vestibules the copper
Cannons of his girlfriend’s legs
Sing;
And they are the chorus lines of constellations;
They are such the precious things.