The Places In Which You Were Born Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If the words are perfect, or their delusion perfect,
Then they become a fire escape,
And the ways out from even the long arms of airplanes,
All the way down the strange tresses of the vineyards,
As from down your lips and tiny skirt:
And your eyes felt like air-condition for gold-fish:
And none of it was real,
And afterwards I went to the library my mother used to read to
Me in even before I went to kindergarten: and then I
Bought a bicycle and went to the oldest school yard in our
County,
And saw the primary colored helicopters pass like basic lovers
Beneath a standard moon,
While the rich people played all around me- while you were
Away,
Giving your love to the brown skinned graveyards who tattoo
Your body,
And who know your name just as well as the places in which
You were born-
Alma.