Like Ephemeral Roses Poem by Robert Rorabeck

As if the very wildflowers were your family:
Alma, but I am still right
Here, like a rattlesnake with a sweet tooth for your
Woebegone ankles,
And it feels alright to lie that I wont bite you:
You only weigh one hundred and ten pounds and you
Are really a sight, especially when I can lie down
Across you like a buzzard on its eviscerated
Highway and make love for eons,
As the moon showers us with the preposterous and light
Hearted gifts,
As the lines end and begin again, underneath the Indian
Monuments of the earth,
The stone rainbows, or the ways to remember you own kind;
And to just kiss your lips again in the semi-permeable
Atmospheres underneath the overpasses of any kind of flea
Market would feel like it would be enough,
As quarters are enough for the homeless regiments surrounded
By the eager cannibals,
Lying down after dinner to sleep with the man of your young;
And it all seems to bleed away into other immortal promises
That you swear you will no longer read:
But the Virgin of Guadalupe remains your goddess,
Remains my goddess,
And the fires in her hearth of promises are like ephemeral roses
Whose burns are very real.