Of Our Previously Wakeless Dead Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I want a baby with you: we make love I guess,
And now you sleep down by the easements of another man:
Who isn’t even a man in comparison; but, well, god damned:
I think of you at the mall,
And I fold paper airplanes underneath the ceiling fans:
And it all goes some ways in the opulent grottos of my
Adolescents:
And we don’t even have to propose or grow old together:
I can just picture you with the oranges, and not a far ways off
From the highway:
You make me the happiest man in the whole world,
And it is really fun, but I know that you cannot marry me,
Because your family has arrived:
And you want to marry a pilot, the wife of an aviator:
And because I have left school and cannot spell, it has all come
To this,
A beautiful corpse with legs so exclamatory beside the busy ways
To Canterbury; but I guess I am just remembering an old and
Familiar way straight down into hell:
While you, Alma, are just my heaven or my butterfly, and you keep
Me captivated while all of the older and prettier girls
Are disappearing underneath the promontories an ingenious caps
Of the expletives of salutatory mountains;
And all of the rains come and gather and keep company before
They soon move their own ways to other ventures, like a casual
Game of she loves me or she loves me nots,
While I guessed that you loved me, as I held you neck in the rain
And the chickens were hypnotized;
We all laid off of counting, and the forest grew into its own country;
While the turnpikes and graveyards grew;
And I promised you breakfast, Alma, straight into the smiling
Kills of whatever adversary we were facing for the day;
And then the astronauts suited up over those suburbias that I could
Never rightly explain to you:
And your aunt smiled while she was dying, and her three boys
Grew into giants as her man made love to her cousin:
Alma: I have loved you since I met you and even while my parents
Swam away; and all of this is the calligraphy of the previously
Mentioned dead;
Inhaling in, how sweet the perfumes lie over the graveyards
And the festivals of less than primary lights that swing in their
Ways over the penumbras of how we have loved ourselves
Over the fables of our previously wakeless dead.