Underneath The Shade Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Comatose beauty singing through the slits of her
Elbows—
Articulated and unarticulated and flying back again:
Paper airplane bound upon picking up
His paper paycheck
As upon this paper this paper song is sung:
Folded up at the elbows:
Folded up at the creek:
Folded up in the folded memory of a folded week:
Slipped through the reservoirs,
Slipped through the press boxes: there is the king,
And there are your foxes:
As he sings—horned in death and rainbows—
Butterfly adjacent to the graveyard
Or the garden in the rainstorm—
As mute as a box he keeps lighted underneath the shade:
Here is where I left you—
That is what I made.