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