The Serpent's Sin Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Gun bolts left in the open throats of the
Frontera, where the illusions of fireworks and muscle
Men pirouette:
The airplanes the fat biceps of the zoetrope’s overblown
Mirages,
While needled into their golden caves, the nuns are
Playing video games,
As the graveyards travel sideways: and I am singing to
Unicorns,
And making love to windmills and all of that;
The wishes felt up in brail on the tough side of the mountain,
And none of the weather is ever coming down,
So she is safe to climb, even though she is really
Forgotten,
While the buses of your grandmothers school years
Rust in the curling armpits of her jungled alders;
And the otters swim up to kiss and entangle with the throats
Of beavers,
In the pulls of ancient jubilee who will forever be too pure
To feel the serpent’s sin.