How Permanently Remains Beauty Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Sleepers in the valley—
Dreams of Richard Nixon in ash,
Yoke of mascara for her eyes,
And she’s lost her virginity:
And it all goes this way:
The flowers crinkling like little girls diaries
Who’ve been emolliated,
Who you think you saw walking away;
And the uncertain directions their skirts
Take from the bus stop
All the unearthly crinoline about which
The government has worked hard
At reintroducing,
Feral parliaments slipping little things
Inside trees while the moon waxes,
The bumblebees hum absently
Especially in springtime and at
The town hall dance
While the weight of her legs loses its streamlined
Shape over all the years,
While younger and toothier of men keep introducing
More streamlined cars,
Which out do her,
Which make you look away from her,
Until there is only the quiet outline outside of some
Store,
But you still think you’ve seen her
Walking about in the ubisunts of unfair weathers,
Believing that just for a little while
She could just about raise the dead
If her eyes lingered in one direction,
Searing back the layers of untrustworthy tomorrows,
Proving just how permanently remains beauty.