My Stalwart Metamorphosis Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Up in the apex of a Ferris Wheel,
Looking down at where you live: going nowhere, turning
Around,
Like a tear falling on your roof to sleep,
While my dog sleeps alone, and my house is the woods,
And it feels good to be going towards you-
Like foot traffic to Mexico, Alma; because if I am broken
Stained glass, you are my muse;
And the city accosts you, for to it you are the harem of its
Wilderness,
And you are blowing kisses of weather fronts, pushing away
The invading armadas,
And flexing your strength, bowing trees like your body,
A brown stem wetting in my bed: good for starting fires:
Snakes crossing the highway of your abdomen,
Fireworks on holidays where neither of us belong;
And then you are going home,
Across the railroad tracks- to other constellations, to that
Family I do not know, like foreign gods with hungry veins,
Stealing into the coops
Of my stalwart metamorphosis.