That Rides Like Angels Poem by Robert Rorabeck

And I am in love but not in my prime:
Looking down through the
Substrate like sifting through a wishing well:
Words that are forked,
Trying to find the hidden clefts of reindeer
Sniffing their fox gloves:
Prettily eating babies breath, as the sky cries
And, she, the river floods:
In beautiful fantasy- where areoled nipples
Rise:
This hidden goddess, brown as the streams
Underneath of airplanes
That ride like angels: she forever came from
Mexico, but I think that she will never be
My love.