The Hypothetical Cathedrals Of Her Living Room Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Alone in the grotto where everything that was
Pretty burned down:
Alma back from work, and industrious in her own house:
That I can only get close enough to when drunk,
To spill myself off the bicycle like
Cardinal groceries, to crawl on my belly and believe in
Helicopters up on her roof,
While she is as if in the warmth of a hearth, cooling,
Skin like the glass of the earth:
Perhaps she spins her tiny girth, and calls up to me without
Even knowing,
Tangles and tugs on the soul’s strings who have caught me,
And who are pulling:
And I am not even a real boy: I have been persuaded by the cat
And the fox to bury all of my wealth on the beach:
And now it is gone,
As the ribbons are gone from her hair, as the flowers I bought
Her are dying in the hypothetical cathedrals of her living room.