Over All Of The Sleeping Worlds Poem by Robert Rorabeck

And the moon is a poem—floating azure
Over the cathedrals of the runway of
Another college I seemed to have attended
So many long times ago—
So very long ago that it all becomes a cemetery
To me held up and defended by its armpits—
While even the bravest pilots
Swerve and correct themselves—
And the moon paints the ribbons upon these
Bows—
And the graveyards are unemptied,
So they collect the elements that are lighter than
Air, lighter than paper dolls burning—
And you once called me even though you
Were married and I had my parents in my car:
It was the very last time I sold Christmas trees:
Now I am a school teacher in the graveyards—
And I, drunkenly, I am about to have my first child,
As the night balloons into the architectures
That just so happen over all of the sleeping worlds.