Whose Purest Of Natures Is Not For Me To Describe Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Now if you evaporate what will I have
Left to drink,
For the railroads and all the cemeteries are perfectly
White:
They seem to have the same telltale face as my
Mother on her wedding day,
For she was something of perfect beauty;
And she still is,
Like stamp on a rifle but, like antlers yet to shed from
The horns of the toughest stags from the opal
Pure necks of all of these mountains,
Because October is a beautiful holiday,
And it is still coming around; and a sorority of girls with
That birthstone seem to be getting up and diademing my
Silly head,
Spitting with well sewn breasts and lips. And they will never
Let up,
Even if they can’t believe in who they still are,
They are still leaping like a carnival predestined on its
Providential tracks;
So there is no reason for me to fear of their savior;
Maybe they are mine, for they are always leaping
As tall and wide as a movie theatre,
Just as lustrous as the feral lips of the sweetest gods
Whose purest of natures is not for me to describe.