One At A Time Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Filled to the brim of egrets,
The clouds lose their surface looking down
At the paper airplanes stuck having crossed
The other side of the field:
Across the canal, with the spent bottle rockets,
And now in the glossy apiaries and motes
Of time:
Left there forever like teenagers who never have
To grow up, or awaken, to taste her soft
Treacheries,
To watch her grown into a married woman:
So the same exact comets cross them, even after they
Are indistinguishable-
And the new blue gills grow up from the silver
Throated minnows, washing away their numbers
While eating each other one at a time.