From Under The Crescent Hills Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Twitterpated on death,
Flies know so many lips;

They may not get her message,
But they love her tasty gist.

2.

Mathematicians of chaos sing a plague,
In pestilent orchestras castanet her head,

Until what is unfinished becomes revealed,
Moon-lit, contented.

….

They carry their instruments in rain-slicked
Cases, under shoulder-

Go home to empty kitchens and beg for more;
They will only live for a fortnight,

But will always adore that woman still grinning
From under the crescent hills.