Under All These Many Things Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Posthumous I may be
Two percent immortal,
Good enough for looking at while passing
Through to more important ways
By car
Or fast train:
I may be your esoteric Mickey Mouse
With fat, almost Jewish lips,
With eyes of spendthrift cadaver;
If you would see me rot out in the open
Air market knee high with the
Spikenard
And the red armpits of cypress,
Then you would know me,
And how I feel for you with a new side
Of my face scarred,
Like a little boy with a divining rod
Wanting to searching out your pullulating womb
Down there in the aloe beside the muggy
Carport,
And once found, dig his garden house into you,
To see how deep the water has a home
Under the citrus tree,
Under the moon,
And under all these many things.