The Blueing Churches Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The pride of Mars sung in the chicken pocks of
Leopards;
And all of the good times that the chicken used to cross the street;
And all of the hidden spots on the road,
Going back and forth like lovers getting tattoos or starving
Off the wild fences:
The good morning dews, and the palaces that the buses never
Made it too:
The soft unsounding winds of hummingbirds, the languid backs
Of centipedes
Kicking off the roes of arid minnows while my canines wait
For me to survive;
But I will never be making it back there, now that I have found
Alma’s lips,
I pray that it doesn’t rain tomorrow, so that I can go through
Another common metamorphosis here in my yellow house
On the move,
And under all of that somnolent bliss, or any other
Superflous word just misused to describe it; the feelings that the
Lonely dead have on their mind;
And how I stood beside Alma today, and studied the brownness
Of her eyes: they have their own jewels that will never be naked,
And the lighten into stars over the candles of her birthday:
And I will never know exactly which of the girls she is,
But I can only sing forever crookedly forever,
Outside of the blueing churches who should never let me in.