The Eternal Flame Of My Very Soul Poem by Robert Rorabeck

When the bodies lay low,
They become the breath of whispers in side the shells
Of vanished homes,
While the Cadillac’s hustle and otherwise words make names
For themselves,
While the graveyards are peacefully gossiping now
That the young boys have come home,
And I have seen Alma’s eyes in my own house,
And I have pressed her flesh to bone,
Like dampened butterflies on wet flowers, like traffic sloshing
To return to a warm dinner:
I have felt Alma’s tongue pressed there too:
And her body that whispers and floats like a wave of paper over
My body:
Whose stamp is there, as if sealed by a queen: because Alma is
My reyna,
And these are letters to her in the high school of her own Hollywood;
Or these are just the fruitions along the sidewalk basking underneath
The desk of her tawny legs,
And her very being is a water fountain of an unobtainable spirit
I would aphoristically all to gladly die for to obtain,
Thus quenching the eternal flame of my very soul.