Her Unnatural Face Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Making busied skeletons that do
Not dream to have fun—
Even though they do
Not have throats, drinking rum and
Rum:
And unicorns do not exist,
But exist in the unbusied racetracks
Of the sea:
Coming back again and again tomorrow—
Will they remember me—
Folded out
Where they cannot be observed—
The dead that are not really dead—
The butterfly on the crown
Of a narcoleptic king in the beautiful grass of
A cemetery—
Laying and sunning his un busied bones—
The mountains underneath the narrowest shade
Of the telephone poles—
The muses coming home for tomorrow—
Tasting their lips,
Figuring out what they can borrow: world of grapevines
Amidst the zoetropes foxes:
Prettiest of the youngest girls in their most beautiful
Boxes:
Someday I don't wonder that they will be wedded to kings:
As the mountains tumble—
As the heavens stream—of a yellowing beauty
Alighted with her fire—
She kissed her knight and her children—as the beautiful
Day puts out her unnatural fire.