To The Presumptions Of Epiphany Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Silent auction of the lips,
Pursing- pensive, persistently disenchanted
And almost wet,
The way the fox’s lips must feel as he leaps
For the grape,
Or the little vanities in stewardesses legs
As they too leap to and fro in their airplanes
Following sun up and sundown,
As the roosters grow and it gets up into some kind
Of mischievous song-
As the horizon, like some kind of curtain is
Almost pulled back, leaving the slightest
Possibility of what lies unaware
To the presumptions of epiphany.