A Secret Color Named Alma Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Like an otter come out and into her own:
Outside of classes, and outside
The impenetrable bosque:
She is now selling fruit to speaking
Dragons:
While the traffic shuffles unhesitatingly over her
Shoulder:
She is an angel that doesn’t even realize.
And her eyes are darker and more perfect than the
Known seas,
And the creatures who live in them, delighting in the
Caesuras, have known my heart,
Even if they do not care: and when she drives home
For the day,
She puts me in an unmarked grave- headless, without
Flowers, or smelling of the
Blown gas of industrial lawnmowers-
And I go home too, and get on my knees and
Pray for this muse, this soul: a secret color
Named Alma.