Girl Named A- Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I love a girl named, A—
But now there is no more reason in these careless matters:
They've been selling themselves away—
Kissing and pressing themselves
Up the bunt cakes of the slopes: you cannot say
That they haven't been looking good—
Just like Mexicans growing corn underneath the
Volcanos the butterflies travel to and then die into just to
Have a look-
Until it becomes a vulgar habit and a possibility that cannot
Be dispelled—
I will say again that I love you, but then I will awaken and then
Go to school tomorrow—travelling back into
A world that I'd just left starving—
And then I will see you dressed in the positive alphabet of
All of the heavens—
And I will lie down, striking with my thoughts all of the negatives
Of your fires—
Building and pushing my own soul like a spearhead through
The morgues—In fact, through all of the busy highways of
The cadavers.