In The Aspects Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Simple traffic, it is no art:
I get drunk at the museum—I get
Drunk at the mausoleum,
And the butterflies follow, landing on my ever
Widening shoulders:
I once had a muse that was equally bored by
Both places—
But now I have a wife and not enough time for both—
Maybe by some Christmas she will have followed me—
As my muse that once was—to whom I made
Love some sixty times—now lingers in
The orange groves of North Central Florida—
Like a proper noun next to the arcs that are being built
For all of the zoos alongside the flooding valleys
Of my tears:
And my poems emote these things—like kaleidoscopes
Collecting the first hallucinations of a day at kindergarten,
And then to sing unbroken into the springs—
She may walk past an empty baseball diamond and
Never recognize it—what I see:
Her in all of the aspects of the red ghosts—
And sailors lost for so many days in the aspects she cannot
Even recognize to believe.