To Buy Her Flowers - Poem by Robert Rorabeck
Earth come down around her shoulders
And say to the bereaving mountains that she does
Not work at the fruit market anymore:
But she has gone up onto the shoulders of
And what she can see from there:
Flea markets basking in their grottos, and soft,
Unmolested ways back to Mexico:
But she is entirely dependent and too far away
For me to buy her flowers.
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