Underneath The Red Cliffs Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Days underneath the red cliffs
Of the rider-less saddles
As my mother burns sugarcane
And my father sells fireworks beside
The highway,
Not far from the garden of Eden where
The leopards still lie down
Underneath the ceiling fans-
And the spotless virgins flip in the sky
Like a mantilla of candles:
And the lions yawn, filling up with
Goldfish that are just mirages:
They burn away like eager wishes-
And the sky doesn’t know
What to say:
It just flips the page,
And the night waits for your pretty
Voice to fill it with
Unicorns.