Maybe On The Seventh Story Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Buxom: a word to begin with for the dentist
Who is a fox,
And I am lying here in the land of silver mountains.
And I am no preacher,
But all of this seems elusive:
The five thousand years of Chinese history I
Have to contend with—the new pocks on my face,
As I am finally leaving Shanghai,
Drinking the last of the white wine my ten thousand
US dollars was good for,
And I am still hidden,
And I am yet to be found out, maybe on the seventh
Story—why aren't there any foxes home,
Leaping, leaping for all of the ski-lifts
Until someone else finally figures out how to
Unbutton her home: and she is a skydiving illusion,
And I am a plagiarist of uncountable numbers,
But it feels all right to be signified in the lightest
Of tombs—
And if this is how it has to be going to meet her,
After she has already been found out by me so many numerous
Times—why then, of course, it is all right—
As I have talked to her, and calmed her down,
And now all that lies before her is so many feet of darkness,
And she, of course, is already almost home.