The Summits Of Alma's Everlasting Name Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Now you have no family; now you have no home;
And all of your loved ones are across so many borders
As to go uncounted into the earth:
And If you had a sancho, you said today that you would
Kill him,
Kill him as easy as pulling the wings off a butterfly
Underneath a rainbow before the unfailing failure of the incestual
Cataracts,
And I cannot get a job outside of my uncle’s fruit market,
But I would miss your pretty lips otherwise, Alma:
Otherwise I would not move,
Or it is that I would fail already into stillborn cities of the quieted
Places in the earth unto which the sun cannot even prove;
And I know that if I was really a poet, then my beauty would
Bloom unending and carry itself out of the forgotten
Streets that budded itself in my exhausted memory,
Just as the forgotten swings could carry your brown carriage
Up from the sterile romances that gave you
Both of your children already so far lost like reanimated
Pets into the faraway school yards which were just
Built because they must entertain me-
And yet through this unjustified catastrophe, I want only your
Lips, and not even any flag- or the lighted harangue of fireworks:
Doing this for you after the job, after all of the flanges
Of washing machines,
And all of the weathercocks miss lighted across the tangling
Raspberries:
All of the grizzlies disillusioned into the glitz of their trapezes
Graves,
Almost necrophilic so far beneath the summits of Alma’s
Everlasting name.