Cover Up The Beautiful, Beautiful Words Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Now I have a mask and typresets but
It will not be halloween—not even tomorrow
And I am in China
Not in Paris with a muse,
But in Shanghai with my wife,
And nothing else lasts forever—
My paper novels fallen at the feet
Of unknown guests like stillborn sacrements,
And the yellow angels waiting to expand with
The corpulent sun:
Nothing else is beautiful,
But my little family on a paper- dirt road:
They are beautiful and they will go on forever,
Abandoned at the borders of the
Zeitgeist’s page:
I wasn’t even trying to make money,
I was just trying to live forever, eventually,
As my illgotten liquor sweated and lactated off the
Borders and the forts of the page:
Now, anyways, there are no more heroes,
But television shows are getting better—
Novels are getting more contrary and more abnormal to
Understand,
Though I am certain that it will snow somewhere
And it will, inevitably, cover up the beautiful, beautiful words
That we still cannot understand.