The Strange Contrivances Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Overpasses and overpasses of tools,
Fluctuating dynamite- words spill from the caesuras
Of what I know,
Listening to the human language of flat tires,
As the amber liquid spills form the lips of
Tightroping humming-birds,
As lost and runaway children spill from Michigan,
Imagining the fledgling spirits of their words,
And the cold hopeless nights of what it
Takes to survive,
Selling ruby glasses to crocodiles, trying to
Imagine the sublimely great trumpets of immaculate
Valleys where the angels sing perpetually,
Nude busted, swinging in all of their stuff
And from their very lips smoking the ether like
The exhaust of the progenitors:
They go- and they move, censers of priests in
A room for acrobats, the swim and do summersaults
And back flips through the spokes of bicycles,
Figuring out the strange contrivances
Of what they can justifiably live to be.