The Tightening Cul-De-Sacs Of Good Times Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Times of make-believe are really here, and the kissing games:
The mountains who have no clothes on rise up stark naked
From the planes
Except for the garlanding of the open throats of Echnopsis
And the diademing of crashed aero-planes:
The Mephistopheles haunts of abandoned minds, into which
The canaries sang their little skull,
Like the yellow harvest of a fruitless picking time:
The miners and their boys up to their unshaven throats in those
Grottos
Making peace with their makers: the clouds evaporating
Across the still born papers of butterflies:
While down there in the unplanted basins, the homeopathic
Cities spun through by the working girls
And all of them kissing in the tightening cul-de-sacs of
Good times.