To The Whispers Never Made Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The wrong sided angels go flitting to the
East;
And it is over the dark and angular caesuras of
A feral sea,
That you can see them
Cavorting with the beast:
And wetting their tongues across the flotsam of
Apple trees,
And speaking with the lips of multitudinous
Apiaries;
And homeless- and shoeless- and like candle
Flames,
They slip their dresses off over the infinite regresses
In their unseen sorority whose
Corsages pinprick into dust:
Whose bared shoulders cajole us, and make the
Fire trucks rust;
And they are the darkness of overspent fireworks;
And they are the tombs in the shade,
As they curfew to the whispers never made by the
Ants and the lions who first
Crawl and then lay in the undervaluing pornographies
Of a presumptive glade.