Blued Kindergarten Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If you know that the nights fall hard on
The spikenard monuments, then you know nothing but
Your letters and of footballs
That the balls are round, the oranges orange:
And America is beautiful, while my muse has come so far
Across the hills and the plateaus
But this is not her country: she is just trying to make money to
Survive:
And that is how she loves me; because she has never yet been taught
How not to love me;
This muse, my Alma: my last and fatal and beautiful thing:
I hope, like a firework, to reach up and find her,
And spill into her unison all of the boats of my milk,
And into her the other words I cannot even hope to find,
But which she deserves that I should find,
And so for her I go out searching before the mailman and through the
Yards where the cars are still at home
For the beautiful reasons that come up through the
Early jubilance of daylight, transforming, and turning around
In metamorphosis across the gardens where all of the pornographies
Who are so like her, but who are none like her,
As if in a blued kindergarten, keep on lingering and linger
Like misallocated statuaries holding their breaths.