With Their Feverish Lips Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Airplanes in the sky with the clouds:
Child’s mobile up in our thoughts,
As it snows over the rivers
And love freezes at our lips, as bouquets-
There are knives in the mountains all
Winter,
And your shop lies beneath them with your
Two children at your hip in
Pieta- in your little shop- and it isn’t right,
But you remember nothing of our
Diminished high school, but I have returned
Again,
And teach there, lying in the mowed grasses
As the rivers run all over your gardens
And sing to you of the hoary men they have
Metamorphosed of: yes, they sing of
I with their feverish lips coming down,
Making new wounds beneath the heavens-
And of other things, I suppose you will
Never know- but which I’ve said for so long.