This Alma Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Windmills revealing the avenues of cold air,
The streets of the unfortunate bellies of my songs:
I work for seven days,
Perspiring in the traffic, the loose sun like
An egotistical god above,
My dog sleeping in my shadow- and then these
Words of strychnine yelping my loneliness:
Disproving nothing,
Revealing my distemper of a tree- my throat
In the yawning hollows of Mexico-
And the whispers of love from a grotto of un cherished
Cenotaphs- from my monuments of dead yearning,
Spindling outwards the garish entrapments-
The sadly un equated forlornness that this is
All I have to give:
Spent into the joyless epiphany, I am returned again
To the very same motions that I wished to escape;
But they resend my love on an unproven soul:
This Alma to whom I always fall from singing;
And they are happy to accept me.