The Most Northern Of Peninsulas Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am listening to my friends:
They come out barefooted, silenced in the fields of their
Work,
Just as the kites happen to happen out underneath the ballrooms
And the gas stations of the empty streets
Even though Alma cannot remember any of her dreams:
I fed her camerones diablas today:
And my Spanish is as bad as my skin, but look at how
Many times we have already made love,
Mi vida:
Look at how heartfelt my coffin is, and the races of the dog
Track with its four legged luck:
Look at it spilling through the confines of the new
Racetracks,
And into the virtues of your own silhouette:
There you are in a Catholic household underneath the birthdays
Of both of your children;
But there has already been a rich assassination behind the ruby
Curtains,
As the orchards lie overabundant with their mouth rinds and
Shetland ponies;
And the circus hasn’t yet left town: I still dream of you
Underneath the rotundas of your futuristic pregnancy, and I speak
To you whenever I can, kissing your wrist with my forked
Tongue, promising you air conditioning and more of everything:
All of the fortunate sins that will bleed you forever,
Like a tributary returning faithfully again- languishing in the forgotten
Shows that happen for miles and miles unnoticed beneath the
Swaybacked and manmade bridges across the all but forgotten
Tributaries of the most northern of peninsulas.