To Make Sure That You Will Never Die Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I get drunk in the sweet graveyards of your
Legs,
Alma, and I mine for gold with the canaries of my lips:
I give you besos
While your cousins pick clean the mangroves;
And I invite you into my house and kneel for you
Before the Virgin of Guadalupe:
I kiss the brown poles of your body the adventures have mishap-ed
And disappeared up;
And your roses have died in my foyer, and you have only been
Bowling once,
But I love you, and the silence your lips give me,
And the sweat of a humid Florida:
I feel as if I awaken in your back yard every morning,
And I enjoy just sitting in your car, and watching your eyes
On me:
Are they just the transoms for a cruise ship your slender body
Delights up:
It seems to swim all the way up to the kitchens of heaven where
Your Rosa is waiting,
Because I know you can never leave her; and cross my heart
As I sit down to my cine that you will serve me
Tomorrow:
That you are so beautiful, and I will work like a beast around the
Slender humidity of your dun equators;
And I swear by all the low flying saints and airplanes, that
I shall do my best to make sure that you will never die.