Her Gloriously Immortal Tomb Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If I knew some more words, I’d have a mirror
Hung up in an evergreen by a little girl who steals more
Things than a horny sparrow:
Twined by red lace, the mirror of words would bleed
From the vocabularies of dawn:
What a beautiful thing to behold it refracting through the
Thorny cones the very sharp mathematics which when
Pricking the deader things burns up:
Like the luscious tinfoil bent around a pencil in some
Lower level class aroused near the canal and smoked-
Before that, shining in the right direction, maybe towards
The penumbras of the sea-level east, those shallowly bustling places
Where socially competent people perambulate and
Share expensive drinks, I could send signals figuring their
Code that I was worth recognition, and turning towards them,
Blind them instantaneously with such luscious numbers of light
Inconvenience cry out throughout all the world that I had a
Dictionary in my high forest that could now conceive the truly
Meaningful emptied from the tipped chalice of all the national
Throats: It was but one angelical compound swimming through
The darkness of the living pond, at first
An infiniteness of blue sucked dry by the bitterly entwining stars,
The awful interludes of injustice sacrificed for the enthroned gold,
And then a mule-gray,
A female poet with a scarred cheek, two children
And a fine new oven for baking pies and ancestral recipes
To which even this mirror is but a muddled reflection
Going down then, eaten and masticated up in her brilliant light,
The forest doesn’t burn and yet is revealed as a stop-light ghetto,
Where she is the deadness of a prime number,
Sweeping steadily like sea-combs atop of polished marble stone,
A stronger twin my scarred pettiness is nourished into:
One heart fumbles and dies into its sister,
And then only the spotless kitchen-beat of her gloriously
Immortal tomb.