In A Deeply Sated Creche Against The Eves Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Now today maybe my face is almost pure like
A butterfly demured into the forests in the far underground
West,
Into Mexico:
The way she has shed off her old cars and boyfriends,
But has kept her birthstone clasped close to her breasts,
Because that is the way she started out,
And that is the bath she has taken which sometimes floods in
Crepuscule,
Leaving watermarks on the posts of mailboxes,
Leaving tawny calves bitten by sharks or werewolves;
And in the morning to the cartoons all beautifully arisen
As beautiful and as light as hummingbirds and vixen,
She cleans herself or she sings:
What exactly is she doing, but putting on her new boy’s rings:
She doesn’t even have an understudy- She is not afraid of
The passageways from one to the next revolution:
This is all a merry go round in its solution, that she showers in
Nakedly and shampoos and has her ablutions;
And maybe they speak about her in classes about her,
In which her auburn distributions are the penultimate solution;
But for she is just touching down again
Blushing like cherries carried on paper airplanes, her paper as
Red as firecrackers;
And she crawls down and finishes hanging from the crooks of
Cypress trees; and maybe she even cares to think or remember of
Me,
As her day finishes and she passes out once again like the most
Colorful and beautiful thing in a deeply sated crèche
Against the eves.