By Which She Can Never Be Found Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Another word thrown like a rose on
The tomb:
My heart is the tiny echo of one tear
Sliding down the entrails of
A funnel;
And all that I love is married, and taken up
Like prospected land,
And spoken for;
And the Indians are whooping and
Every last one of them has a chubby-
There is no more room left between the clouds,
And the seashells beneath them are
Creeping like crustaceous ghosts back inside
Her dresses,
Like little orphan children who are so shy;
And I am going to finish off my last drop
Of sun,
And then I am going to buckle myself in and ride
Underground inside her
Roller-coaster coffin; and I am going to feel
Again the ways and avenues
By which she can never be found.