Blissfully Across Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Parks are chirping in sweat:
Parks with mist in their swings-
They don’t ever have to worry about getting home,
Or having strange men mine coal from
Their bosoms;
But they sigh underneath the reprobate mountains;
And there are already so many stewardesses on their
Swings serving drinks,
Tourists in their lees waiting to get married
Through the open corridors and the perfumes of
Unabashed skyways;
And I don’t know what I am saying,
Because I am not a pilot- It has been some years since
I’ve been to Colorado:
Colorado,
The breasted centipedes, I want to hike your legs:
I want to get going up and up past the things the venal muses
Should only sing,
To eat my ham and cheese up above tree line,
To not have to worry about the suspecting eyes over my body,
To enjoy my scars above the faces of the world
Where everything is a light air vertigo,
Where angels cut clean,
Where all the birthstones grow: If you are my muse,
I’ll meet you there in the clouds of make-believe,
And above the trains.
Otherwise I don’t know what I am doing,
And I am just a liar who made you believe the sky is coming
Down blissfully across your bare naked shoulders.