With The Premonitions Of A Greater Truth Poem by Robert Rorabeck

These words who burn my throat like lies:
Alma says that I am a liar,
That I am always lying: but the clouds lie too when they
Seem to perceive the images of our language,
And at least my lies are pitiful and homeopathic:
They cannot swallow much,
And they wind up on her doorstep- to a girl who has never
Been to Colorado to see where my mother was born,
While the newborn unicorns curl their horns in the
Thunderbrush of their woodland creche,
And the traffic jams of rains pile up through the aspens,
I show all of my wounds to you,
Alma- and if they are not great, I apologize;
But I can still see you here all the same, the wooden hallways
Smoking with your basic instruments:
Your body wears the day, or it is a mirage, and something
I cannot help lying about,
For its divine aesthetics ring with the premonitions of a greater
Truth.