Well Accustomed To Alma's Blaze Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Waiting until morning for my fair, hoping that
She keeps her promises
And is neither fearful of her uncle or the wolf,
For she has come far across all of Mexico
And found me here,
Like a wound waiting to be closed, and she has:
For the moment,
Even while all of the dangerous amusements are being
Taken down:
Her lips brush across me, and we go to town:
Like the very wave that forever combs,
Like a woman who transforms my room into the grotto
Of a Ferris Wheel;
And everything that just has to metamorphosis and move
On,
Instead waits and looks into the charisma of her eyes;
Understanding that she can be the hero for all of them,
They keep their skins
And thus become well accustomed to Alma’s blaze.