The Shoulders Of Her World Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Votive orchard there you are:
Open throated underneath the airplanes:
What are doing while the
Birthing mothers lay apexes beside you:
And what are they doing,
But turn around into the good world again,
Releasing the continual specters with
New names,
Faces- and so much hearts, but there is
Only a certain amount of energy allowed inside of
Them- cooing next to the speckled
Hibiscus: what are they doing-
What do they seem to appear to be doing,
But growing upturned underneath the soft speckles
Of so many forts, or going their way
In the decrepit longitudes without knowing
How they can; and I wonder if they can,
Lying there beside them with the other tourists:
And I wonder now if this is their world
And if they should know it now as if in the
Amusement parks of some dull terrapin
Trying to make it across a baseball field
As the clouds undress for the ether and the stars
Once again speckle the shoulders of her world.