The Clothing Of A World We Cannot See Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Ended by rows of epitaphs half naked with vulgar
Roses-
Even the prostitutes have given up beneath a vermilion
Curtain up above that is
Never opening;
But wonderful complexions without any color,
Life infants underneath the stones of their roods,
With elaborate nakedness behind the closed windows of shops:
And you right here,
Breathing against me before church- and yet nowhere discernable;
Not worried upon- like something that goes missing
But stays found:
And I can hear your daughter laughing as I give all of my promises
Over to you,
And your run your brown hands under the faucet in another
House somewhere near here
Which echoes like the traffic of honey sucking birds:
And I and the fox and his friends cock heads to listen,
As you take off the clothing of a world we cannot see.