From The Reasons Towards Her Accords Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Pretending to do good deeds, jogging beside the
Fires of Christmas when it isn’t even yet Halloween- but all of the new
Babies will soon be suckling of the massive egos enjambment ed
Into the swollen crèches of another woman
I don’t suppose I ever belonged to: as new words rise up like gravestones:
And all that was here dries out of color and folds into itself,
Supposing that it has never had to be for so long;
And my muse, she- lies down with her husband, kissing the centerfolds
Of another grotto or car show:
Forgetting about me, but wounded and breathless: while she is my heaven
I’ve been calling the fires into and kissing the feet of the other
States of Mexico while all that was left has yet to be
Serenely proven: and then I eat my lunch next to her, like a kite next to
The stewardess in the waves: and I become soft and swollen with the indentures
Of the Wisconsins whose music she never deems to listens, but to which
She lives so near towards- and her name is Alma, and this is but the latest
Canto bled from my reasons towards her accords.