Through The Beautiful Time Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I have new ways of being dismissive, of laying out
Long again
Yawning in the yard over which the waves of
Airplanes are mowing:
I have unto myself new ways to believe again,
While all of this was just the usual ventures,
Passing through the casual hours in the limelight of
Postumous cathedrals:
The hummingbirds are croaking, and their feet are sore.
And while it all has turned out,
It has all turned out burning on the floor, and it all seems to
Be a venture in the strange trees in which the monsters are
Pronouncing,
Looking for something that must seem beautiful against
The streets of space shuttles:
While then all it was, the lost adventures of housewives:
Why, then- that was all it was,
While they were all dancing shoeless around the dump
Truck, singing their songs:
Why, then, this was their song- and I still seem to pretend
To be singing:
Why, then, this is just another song, repeating as a heartbeat
As the night proceeds, and the new children come into
Her, crossing their own hearts,
And swinging into her own cradle while they suck their
Thumbs while her midnights proceed through the
Beautiful time.