In Her Favorite Color Of Gods Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You can fill up this butterfly with words
Like amber liquors into a shot glass over ruined fingers,
While the thoughts tumble the speechless birds;
And all of it can be a canyon of a heart waiting to be filled,
All the speechless wilderness that burns behind the
Senses,
And the feral boys there who are unlucky shots:
They are trying to call you from the banisters of an apathetic
Nest,
Because anyone can see how rich you are, and how foolish:
While Alma is smooth,
Her hair like the penumbras of a punchy comet:
She’ll ride her ponies anywhere, and when I practice witchcraft,
I put her eyelash in a portrait of a woman by Picasso,
And then I lay back so greased and count the verbs,
Those actions that I saw her out doing through the day,
What a fortunate curse to be so positioned near her in the world,
And to have come upon her after she has already settled
With her beautiful family in a golden forest where the hummingbirds
Sleep on the ground like the loose and homeopathic change
Of sated serpents,
And you can count the rings of their hollow flight paths they once
Took, singing like thirsty halos around Alma’s
Head,
While there was movies, and the Incas rose their green nosed
Pyramids through the cracks in the smoky coronations
In her favorite color of gods.