Without Ourselves Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Cloudbanks of cold and hot innuendos
While you are waiting for the forever lonesome stewardess
To take of—
You can go anywhere
Across the earth,
While she is shaking her evergreen shoulders
In a forever golden filigree—
Pigeons that at first
Prance and then make love over
The mastiffs of their bedrooms—
Cooling,
Dandelions—of anywhere that was just because—
Words that started out as lions,
Peeling their wares for the shoulder blades of
Rusting airplanes—
And we made love—and we made love,
Or at least I thought we did—
Words struggling- -
Tugging for breath in and amongst the
Amphitheatres—
Words that are lying to themselves and waiting
At least for a while to just try to take off—
Pigeons in the practice of dance—
Of ballet—
Of other words trying to reform themselves—
To strike out again,
Northwards in the better weathers—
And feathers flying by themselves—
Or falling down—
Floating without dreams—
Wondering if they could ever discover
The murders of whoever they are with our
Without ourselves.