Windmills Of Our Wandering Bones Poem by Robert Rorabeck

When they make love through the strings of catgut underneath
The power lines-
I don’t suppose either of them ever wore roller skates or
Ever flew in airplanes:
And she tried to prepare her reasons for her love for me,
But it was just because I bought her so much
Gold for her brown fingers-
And I continued singing to her as roses ached over my
Bones:
And she smiled and played gamed- translucent
And phosphorescent:
This specter, what did she care about my sun- while I was
Seizing the rapidly increasing embraces of
Windmills- as the cars drove home over the old cradles
Of our wandering bones.