Their Kites Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Trains in my ears
And I only have nine fingers, and I wonder who
I will be loving until then:
Driving home after
All of the pacifying fire of another day
As the light is parceled out into
The gullets of the wealthiest
Men,
And the skull grows, and the rainbows unwrap
Their ribbons
Into another daylight of some other god than
Who is always here:
Why it parcels out, and the sad light seems to transcend
Forever, skulking primordial
Across the sheaths in those fields of planted
Knights,
But after them, the young virgins come out
And read my poems
And try their tongues and fly- and fly their kites.