The Irrefutable Sheets Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Ripcords of these things that we cannot pull off:
Stewardesses eaten naked by the lips of the giants in his
Sky forts,
Smeared like tipsy marmalade all over all of those
Orchards:
Rhymes of accord, and holding her tiny brown fingers in
Mine,
The way song birds are housed in their cages before
The lips of the golden mines,
When all of the night is in trouble, and in them the wolves
Are terrible singers:
But their eyes are even more terrible, as they hold all of
The feral thoughts of the children
They must steal away from us, when we kiss each other
And go down beneath the irrefutable sheets of
Another un sanctimonious baseball game.