Alma Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Alma



How you accuse me on this beautiful earth:
How I pocket the emptiness that needs to be mended:
How I strut out and turn around and faint, for every element
In this yellow day might as well be a beautiful woman
Breathing and bosomed as the clear, blue sky:
And if I said I wanted to die in Disney World, then you know that
It had to be true,
And I drink liquor, liquor, rum and liquor, and I curse and
Think of you;
And I wear out all of my Alma’s, which I think means souls:
Both of my feet and of my body, and I go down into the valley, following
The tresses of an infatuated earth:
I pass up all of the arrow heads and unicorns just to get to the bottom of
Your worth;
And as it turns out your mind is flooded by a sea, or by a bloody river;
It makes no sense to me; all the firemen are climbing your trees,
And the pitch-fork pines are raising their necks like herons up from
Your melodies;
And your body working; and your body tired out smells like perfume
And your eyes are transoms: they are the carnivals that move in time together,
That make the sweet music that both delights and hypnotizes the
Breath in my soul.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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