The Propitous Heavens Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Parade in the trombones of plebian castles:
I look at images of Vachel Lindsay the day before
I leave for Shanghai:
The roads were so busy today, two days before
Christmas- and I was in love with someone
Else-
A muse who escaped through the bullet holes,
But I don’t shop for her
OR go nearer to her ganglands than I have to:
Her brown skin like an apple still dazed in the sun-
And her body stretched into a cornocopia
Across her bed for her children-
Paradoxically, they are her harvest, but they need
Her, and nuzzle up to her like glittering foxes,
Eyes with dazzling midways,
Like circuses who’d been born at the same time
Underneath the propitious heavens
Who have become like the mobiles of Ferris wheels.