The Dictionary Of My Blessings Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Here we are in the entrails of forest
Drinking down the last evidence of arson from
Our glasses,
And it will soon be that we will go to sleep,
And so will no longer have to pretend to be a cowboy
Attending the forlorn rodeo,
As the empty world will have no more need for our
Bravery;
And it is because I love you, Alma, that I still survive,
And call your name up to the yellow pages of the stars:
Still searching,
Searching, like a lame horse for her stride,
Like a lost feather of its streamlined glide; and now you
Have bowed out and been taken away into the embrace
Of his charmless arms:
There you go wingless without any hope for rope tricks,
As I doubt that he has anything left of value for
You to steal;
As the illusions of daylight will soon have you
Transcending once again through the minions of its
Calvary,
But you must already know: don’t you, don’t you,
That only this, the dictionary of my blessings, is real:
Is real.