The Workings Of Their Darkness Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Chrysalis from a glass blower’s hypnosis;
Under the tinkering roofs, underneath the sun that is
All about metamorphosis,
The queasy feeling in the stomachs of little boys
At the moments of take off;
And the stewardesses who comfort them, half undressing
With a smile;
And then it is for awhile in the clouds, the chateaus
Galloping high-nosed above the arid plains
With the vineyards of dessert wines puckering the noses
Of salient foxes
When there isn’t even a lighthouse around; and I just keeping
Doing this,
Turning, and turning and discovering for you the limpid
Abandonment’s of fool’s gold,
The latchkey children left to marvel at the canaries minute
Graves all down the slope’s side, like feathery clockworks that are just
Beginning the workings of their darkness.