The Graveyards Of My Name Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Now from the fire-engines—
From the fire towers—
You look at me naked in a way, as I have my wife
And sea shells,
But otherwise a very elusive and obscene vocabulary:
But the roses have raced and have been
Given their nuptials underneath the pine trees,
And now the winners wear their wreathes and their lays
And now are otherwise going home misspelled:
As I seemed to see you in the painting, the only one
In a wayside room in a hotel, first or second story,
Going either up or down from
An all too busy highway—while the roses cannot
Say even enough of ourselves—and while they are all
Too busy blooming,
And the sun is in his number and filled with the incrustations
Of the illuminate for-get-me-nots—
And this is death, in his busy portable—trying to
Transfigure all of his numbers from the living—
It is some kind of equation—
And I am not telling you the truth—
But I am your paradise—if you are another angel fallen
From the sky—
And you are in heaven right now,
And maybe dreaming of the graveyards of my name