These Sisters To The Heavens Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Better feelings are the Indian givers of the divinity of
Consciousness
Who set out like beautiful girls on their bicycles going a long
Ways out across the city
With bodices spilling like poisonous chalices
Ropes of apples and centipedes;
And if they were even more beautiful they
Would surely run straight away,
Like skiffs of yellow taffy pulling underneath the rainy gray:
They have been up and down their great uncle’s hills;
They have listened to the monarchs sing like wet paper over the
Graves,
And at night while they have laid their machines down and had
No memory of sewing,
They have pooled their resources and sang together reflecting themselves
To the soft bellies of airplanes,
These sisters to the heavens.