The Soul Of My Alma Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am only supposed to be awakened by a daydream
That has fallen too late, that has enamored too deeply into the shadows
Of a stream
Streaming all down from the mascara of her eyes, falling so far as
Migrating butterflies
As to stumble through the higher and lower forests of all of Mexico
Like rose pedals in a wedding sacrificed to the steps
That she doesn’t want to believe that her faith was lost in;
And her work bleeds with the ululating of amphibians awakened through
The nocturnal gestations outside of her carport by the hours of
Darkness,
Addressing and redressing to her the way her knights have turned;
And by that most unclever of moons, the windmills that should be
Breaking their necks serenading her, stutter up the abutments
Trying to siphon off the tears and oil slicks of the sunken tenements of the
Boys, both real and make believe, that used up all of their
Lighters on the wicks of fireworks just to amuse her for a second,
The soul of my Alma- my muse, into turning their way.