The Deep Deep Browness Of Your Woebegone Eyes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The bottle still fills with joy as
The lightning kicks off another show:
Alma your body grows like the righteousness of
Small baby-breaths flowers above tree
Line that don’t fear the snows and weathers that you have
Never seen:
Alma, there is a blue lion in my black yard squatting over
The beans I had planted on your birthday,
And the rest of which I have to say has no sense, but I wished that
I knew better Spanish while the blue’s wetness grew the
Greenness,
And I will see you and your godmother tomorrow and I will see
If she brought me a bigger and even better
Virgin of Guadalupe to adorn my home for you, to bring the thunderstorms
Of the mandevillas of your thighs,
To make you leave a man who can never love you as I can;
And to make me become a real boy underneath the very promises of the
God in the deep, deep brownness of your woebegone eyes.