The Nameless Though Everyday Storms Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The New Mexico’s song urges me further beneath the
Last song of the mountains,
And the field trips of the auburn planes, and the bed sheets
Of ways past like rusting gunfighters
Who are still sleeping underneath the fibrillose shells of their
Over turned carriages:
And now I can vote, and march out into my song and display
My weapons the suffocating wives;
And Alma is here, while the my own mother sleeps in the
Carport of the dreams of my childhood that she
Cannot remember,
Even while all of the old pornography is failing through the trees,
And the secret music of my furthest relatives passes away
Through the trees,
Though I get drunk enough to remember all of the woman that
I was always supposed to love;
And maybe it is enough for her now to just know the bloom
Of my carnal cemeteries:
They are the biggest things and they go on forever without the murder
Of chalk borders;
And her name is Alma, and I have given her flowers several
Times a week for the past month;
And I suppose I am being too romantic for her to love me;
But she is my sea: she is the tattoo on my very soul;
And I suppose that I may never truly have her,
But she resounds in my and then arches over me all of her favorite
Colors that still carry her eyes so very far away
From the orchards and castillos that I have built all of a sudden
To carry her name sanctimoniously through the nameless
Though everyday storms.