The Things Like Swans Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Grandmothers in the quicksand of unison:
The marble houses rise and rise triumphantly, but into the
Service of exorbitant taxation:
And the marvels of the world take up, and seem to last
Forever, leggy, heavily banded and too high to be
Reached to be petted,
But away from view, exhausted, won’t they have to come
Down to refuel or to at least lick their wounds:
And then the trumpets will sound all as sudden like
The glorious savages naked in the junked pornographies
Of wheelless cars in the woods,
And then they will all come running to beat down the things
Like swans,
Just so that they can be sure that there is nothing left
That is beautiful enough to leave them again.