The Standstill Of Whatever Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am years almost a millioniare now-
I am a wound on paper:
I am transparent,
A void in a wound:

Look at me,
Look at all of the pretty colors,
Do you think about me tomorrow, '

Or anyways,
With all of the stars,
young girls coming up and undressing
Themselves,

You had any other night from now,
And and I loved you,
And I loved you in another bedroom

Seven years from now,
But for now-
I am dancing
And as yet I am dreaming-

Paper prints on the heads of the
Cathedrals and so,


They burn
hardly misspelled-making love to the
acruments-
Softest of angels crossing themselves
and so they burn

made up to the filaments and maidens
crosssing and uncrossingh themselves

Now made up for a wedding,
Can you blame me for whatever;
The stars are TAKINg off and they look
as iff whatever,
I was still making love-
As you burned me towards the place,
And the stanstill of whatever.