Bull's Eye Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Spinning and a trinket of colors,
Maybe somewhere still in the young valleys in the middle
Of adolescence,
When it was all sweating but demure;
And I held your eyes, if not your hand until my
Bicycle took me away
Until the dreams were gone and things had migrated
And we made love,
And your eyes were so brown like butterflies with infinite
Pictures of themselves on their
Wings;
And your body meaning everything, which was the very same thing
As your name:
Alma,
Which is your soul, scoring on me bull’s eye.