Let’s get out of here and go <br />To where the sky whistles, <br />Where even now she is getting laid <br />In places beautiful, <br />Where the waves rile their parade, <br />And the sky exonerates in humid scepters: <br />This, through the succession of underpasses <br />In epileptic reoccurrence, <br />Where helicopters float as dreamy wasps <br />Above the orchards of round and fragrant citrus, <br />Above the limestone where she whispers, <br />The wheels beneath us doing their empirical <br />Cessations- Oh, there are tourists wearing <br />Their moribund corpulence, <br />And fine young navy men singing their <br />Jingoisms, and white haired men selling <br />Ice-cream in the cross’s wispy shadow, <br />but the lips of one thing surrender <br />To the lip of the other, and slip beneath her <br />As she pleases, and live with her there in <br />Innumerable caresses in the shallows, <br />Cradles for the teaming of gilled children, <br />And this poem gives little answer to all the <br />Waves which lull their slumber, <br />But let us go and sit and wonder where they <br />Make love inside their bed of lucid spittle, <br />And make things up in puckish kisses, <br />Where the land ceases its existence, in <br />Keen mirages falling like unclothed wrapping, <br />Here is where we should sit to name our children, <br />Our lips mirror sea and shore, <br />And the sky is whistling.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/where-the-sky-whistles/
