Where The Sky Whistles Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Let’s get out of here and go
To where the sky whistles,
Where even now she is getting laid
In places beautiful,
Where the waves rile their parade,
And the sky exonerates in humid scepters:
This, through the succession of underpasses
In epileptic reoccurrence,
Where helicopters float as dreamy wasps
Above the orchards of round and fragrant citrus,
Above the limestone where she whispers,
The wheels beneath us doing their empirical
Cessations- Oh, there are tourists wearing
Their moribund corpulence,
And fine young navy men singing their
Jingoisms, and white haired men selling
Ice-cream in the cross’s wispy shadow,
but the lips of one thing surrender
To the lip of the other, and slip beneath her
As she pleases, and live with her there in
Innumerable caresses in the shallows,
Cradles for the teaming of gilled children,
And this poem gives little answer to all the
Waves which lull their slumber,
But let us go and sit and wonder where they
Make love inside their bed of lucid spittle,
And make things up in puckish kisses,
Where the land ceases its existence, in
Keen mirages falling like unclothed wrapping,
Here is where we should sit to name our children,
Our lips mirror sea and shore,
And the sky is whistling.