This Mortal's Reach Poem by Robert Rorabeck

How loud are these whispers that I drink:
The full catastrophe that it is, coming around once more,
Putting the flowers into their trams for another bordering school
Out amidst the pharoses still trying to
Plead their reason to exist underneath the Pleiades while
I am Alma jog into the zoo:
We get into her car and go away: we are getting married tomorrow,
Which is the horrible proof of the paradox of any promise that
Must happen tomorrow:
It is always there in the backyard underneath the springs of things:
The richest of fruit curling above the infant’s gums,
The serpent spilling the beans:
The luckiest of rabbits’ foots still on the foots of a rabbit who
Too well cultivates the fleeted of foot to ever be truly within
This mortal’s reach.