The Hands Of Lovers Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Thoughtless engines who make no sound,
Whirligigs that can’t tell time,
Uncles of mimics and the properties that are so much
Far and near than mine:
The words and epitaphs on coins put across the eyes
Of the dead and blind,
The legless swimmers kissing water spiders-
The spigots of hope that have all run dry except that
Maybe my Alma Linda will be mine:
Maybe I will see her tomorrow the way ignited gas
Beautifies the sky,
And look across the fruiteria in which I am no longer the
Patronsito,
And be sure that she gives me that sweet hope,
The desires of sweet ownership and the little boats who
Leave the hands of lovers to find her.