The Sky Their Unweeping Canopy Of Deepest Infatuation Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Feel these contemplating things under my eyes,
Birthstones who crenellate flesh,
Dreaming of streamline beauties dripping in balmy pulp
Fiction out beside the swimming pool:
Oh, I don’t care- I don’t care:
I would experience for you the exhumation of entire cemeteries,
The Eucatastrophe of things that aren’t real just before
The real light of day;
If you gave a d*mn, if your eyes could spell love,
And this wasn’t but a rejected greeting card, for no
Certain occasion:
Unrequited, going down by the spectating glaciers, the band
Still playing, but not one instrument saving your heart from
The icy creep of highways like mortal wounds in all directions,
Leading you far away from the comely slopes where
Numbness infects the throat and tongue of every anonymous hiker
Drowning above tree-line, the sky their unweeping canopy
Of deepest infatuation.