Underneath The Gaze Of The Castillo De San Marcos Poem by Robert Rorabeck

This Sunday morning I am trying to write poetry sober:
I am inside my yellow house, but it is a long ways until
October:
I have the Virgin of Guadalupe inside the foyer of my house;
It is her grotto,
But for now I am the only soul inside my house,
And the sky swings above the roof as smoky as a censer:
I can hear the lips of airplanes whispering above my roof,
And the legs of pedestrians chattering along the sidewalk:
All the pretty things do is talk,
And my nights are as green as emerald and Alma’s eyes
Haunt me as dark as drift wood:
Her eyes haunt me as dark as the drift wood that passes through
The channels with the sword fish underneath the gaze of
The Castillo de San Marcos.