Their Silky Bosoms

Traveling that way was troubling handiwork,
Like a kite whose tailfins are on fire, who tries
To make love to the sky
Even after all the pilots are down and inebriating
With the Navajos on some dry creek’s bed
Full of beer cans and bull frogs:
And the stewardesses no longer shave: they go inside
Caves to make love with bears,
Who feed them honey and take care of them all
Winter; but scar them from their love-
and if there were resorts of snow,
They would all melt away, and fill up the canyons
And the grottos of cemeteries,
Making love to the chiseled names of the people
We once knew and who sold used cars,
Who now lay down at the lowest part of the valley
Far away from the mountains where the aspens
Grow like a kaleidoscope of yellow
School girls gossiping of wildfire as they are perfumed
By the pollens that hush down the toolbox draw
And into their silky bosoms.

by Robert Rorabeck

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