The Orchards Of Apple Trees Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Alone at the billfolds of my dogs,
At last with the joy of my scars: my loins drooling over
Another mountain of abandoned cars-
My mouth an opened jewel in the midday of class,
Halfway wondering where the swans have
Swam,
The moon still visible in her negligee- an open lunch pail,
And way to believe, or to get out of here,
Where all of the eyes of the cannibals have been blinking over
The broken jaws of the stalagmites;
And I have nothing else to believe in, except you
Are beautiful, beautiful, Alma:
In a graveyard
Except that there is not a single apple left in all the orchards
That I know- in all of the orchards of apple trees.