The Postmodern Hills Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Paleness that is wondering over the postmodern hills:
It is even here, where I have felt myself;
And curled into the caracoles of a snail that doesn’t even
Realize where it is going;
But come morning it wisps away, back over the yards
Of trailer parks:
The plum trees, and the lushes of sorority:
All of the disguises are put away, and sunlight spears:
Mewing kittens on mothering hips:
Bells to doors jingling, eyes and billfolds, and transportations:
Entire movements from the seaweeds
Leaving behind the beautiful stings of the man of war:
And as she proceeds the men just keep getting more and more
Beautiful,
Until it is all without a shadow, and the song has no place
To hide; indefinitely, she has found her own country:
And she sits atop the warm marble, and awaits that sweet apiaries
To be delivered unto her lips.