The Entire Terrain Of This Earth Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Somewhere here the pilgrims sleep:
They get boyfriends and rum, and you are already home,
Alma:
You have driven across the acclimated plains of West Palm Beach:
From Military to Okeechobee to Congress to
Cherry,
To Seminole and now you are home, and your mother has cooked
Carne and frijoles for you,
Because Mexico is the greatest of labyrinths, and you have all of
Her in your eyes,
Alma:
Your love is a fear for my soul, and it goes around my fort beating
Its dismissive drums,
Knowing that you have already had me: and I am defeated:
I am just a jewel in the throat of a dead crocodile who could never
Learn how to cry:
And I have been to college, and I am just this: Tomorrow my house
Is being treated for termites,
And I will work with you tomorrow under the pistils of absolute sunlight,
Because I did wrong and chose not to leave with my father:
What am I doing here, Alma, besides that I absolutely belong like
The insects to the undeniable perfumes of your brown flowers,
I have no choice but to concede:
And the trucks walk the street as the airplanes strut the sky,
Alma:
And I want to be with you when you become an abuela, Alma:
I want to experience you as new words come up from the depths and show
Their beauties to the egoistic surfaces, and make them weep
Until the entire terrain of this earth becomes the absolute sun shower.