Of America's Highest Of Basins Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Pedals pulling in the spokes of another world,
Even while the rest of it is silent, past the store fronts
And the washing machine,
And the vibrant fabrications in monoliths of invented
Light;
And even while the carnivals turn and make awe struck
Visions that turn our heads up to their bellies,
I fashion for you a very solitary kind of
Yard, Alma-
An enigma of a plane that cannot be described except
By the ochre despondency in your eyes,
Where I have seen entire platoons of indescribable octopi
Swimming
Without their secret agents; and you looked at me
Like a pleading mythology in the early morning wishing wells
Of the fruiteria;
And I couldn’t count on both of my hands the times I had said to you
How much I loved you;
But the opposite wasn’t the same, except that I seem to understand
Now how deeply your soul swims in the tiniest of bodies,
Like the quickest of illusions through the most feral estuaries,
As sunlight seems to skip through the boreal equipages
Where the earliest of the creations still knows how to dance and
Keep the pregoniscence of the innocents the very same way
The sunlight sings like titular virgins in the soft stone throats
Of America’s highest of basins.