Of All The Burried Currencies Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Bodies are here and then they are not:
Souls are taking a vacation, and if I had prettier things then this
Then I would lay them across the knotted strings of marionettes
Across our fair and ventriloquist nation;
And maybe all that we know is dying; and maybe all that we know
Is,
Alma,
And I kneel to the Virginsita every night and hope and pray to
You as the cars crash and eventually the planes crash
And then maybe we can make love,
Because all of the conquistadors are all dried up, and if I give you
A child then the copper canons will cough joyfully and all the dogs
Will bark up daisies,
And we can jog on forever through the forever morning,
And forget that anyone else meant anything at all between the lips
Of our sweet and most exclusive of all the buried currencies.