With That Fox Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Burning up in prayers of our semiprecious beliefs:
Like commuters waiting on the tarmacs for the divine providence
To touch down as airplanes,
While everything around them has an action, both good and bad,
But always dying and forgetting to mail letters,
While loins cross and bleed, and her little children look out from
Windows that she once made love behind:
The very love that created them, and sent then cascading through the
Acrobatics of their living rooms and into Christmas,
Until everything falls like a séances that doesn’t matter,
Both gods and devils making love,
And the fat bellies of airplanes touching down, hungry to be
Sated,
Like the embarrassment of a vineyard ripping its clothes of the vine
To get in bed with that fox.