Like Angels Over The Stolen Bicycles Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I get up into the affections where
The airplanes get so nettled,
Like the city fallen into the forest
Or my heart in the wires of the gutter—
Then the stewardesses don’t know
What to do in the broken glass of
The orchard:
They seem to be turning around in mirages,
Reverberating to the cartography
Of the last days of her grief:
She stands before me, like a housewife after doing
The wash:
The stars are done crying,
And she flings herself across the canal—
Like the angel over the stolen bicycles and anon,
Anon, anon.