The Only Thing I Can Believe Poem by Robert Rorabeck

What color is this, unused of by the hinges,
Bled off the excrement of butterflies: vagabonds of the working class
Knighthood,
Reversing through the drives, as the windows crush on waves,
And never getting anywhere: but bleeding forward through the eaves
Of emergencies, facsimiles that seem to care:
Runaway to Colorado, California and more of the letter C’s:
I want to open a fruiteria and open up my wrists
Underneath the lonely-werewolf traffics that never stop to think of
Me:
And you seem to be fireproof: you seem to be spelled so correctly
And pure:
And you want to holiday back again into your Mexico, but your husband
Said no:
My Alma: you need an operation, even though you look as beautiful
As the month who birthed you,
As all of the wise men are traveling just to get a good spot underneath
The constellations of your crutches:
Who will make you move watermelons and then swim so far away,
Back into a holiday of white women who once they fully opened their
Eyes will be horrendously envious of you:
And this, my vida, is the only thing I can believe.