The Transoms Of The Runways To Heaven Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I loved her by the restraint of memories which had
Already painted over the cenotaphs of all of these pilgrims,
As the pop rockets spent down over the horned rims
Of conquistadors,
While the big and ruddy tanks ran out of gas; but she gave me
A new gift,
As I sat in the open air of our markets, the doves making
Frantic pornographies right there in the lower rung of heavens:
That the narcissisms’ tourists didn’t even look so good,
Their heavens tainted, the wheels of their wagons not so round,
Their creeds chick$n sh%t, and not so hypnotizing;
And I didn’t need to fish anymore: her Alma sustained me,
And we went together underneath the overpasses into the flea
Markets to see the Virgin of Guadalupe, to whom I crawled
And kissed and crawled and kissed some more;
While the airplanes took away our skies of memory, and it really became
Good to go home wherever in absolute anonymity, just to share my
Body with her in a rain shower, to lay with her as a poem, or the
Death of a butterfly, each orifice of her a syllable that could never
Be sung out in the open,
And her eyes the transoms of the runways to heaven.