My Gallant Stuff Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Broken psalms in a discothèque
Lose their way to the south of France through
Wind tunnels on Christmas day:
Green knights with birds in their hair, on parade:
Far away places,
Nose-bitten cliffs overlooking orange fields attended to
By dryads named Galaphile-
The plains on which we exist, covered by angels
And hobos,
While my muse is far away from here: she is in a house
Across the railroad tracks: my soul, my alma,
Seems as if on another sphere,
And the things that I write for her, that I toss out from
My mind seem not to belong,
And I go this way towards her, like a quixotic knight
Approaching windmills,
And I say and do my gallant stuff, like foam
From the lips of waves until
I am dissolved- tasted by her lips,
Effervescing- I return to my truck, floating like a feather,
Like a wish
Over a world that just continues to go on.