In The Luxurious Absence Poem by Robert Rorabeck

What beauty that happens in the luxurious absence when
You cannot see your backyard
Cannot be describe: but it is there, when I am waiting for you—
When the traffic of early-ing morning has stemmed
To its least
And I have gone to school only to skip away again
To smell the armpits of the yards where the perfumes of
The night blooming jasmines are yet lingering:
And I can call your name up from the absent minded rows:
Here with the insects and the minnows far away
Of the housewives who have gone off beneath the sun
To some beauty parlor,
Leaving me free to roam abandoned into your backyards
My footsteps triggering the pollinations of the flowers:
As bees fall around them onto the grasses mowed,
Sated from all of the breakfasts of honeyed pornography:
And I can lie down in the grass and jack-off or
Masturbate:
I can light off roman candles and drink the liquor until
All of the paper bags are emptied—
And then dream you up into the soap-operas of sky,
Even as you fall asleep—evaporating—your ashes
Crenellate my afternoon,
As I lay there sweating, hyperventilating, and conjuring you
Into the places you are absent from.