Through The Orange Groves Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Unequaled vision of this pretty deity
To whom I rode my bicycle towards without remember
What notebook I left her number in:
There she is at the head of the class, giving strange
Configurations underneath the halogens:
While outside, the cars sit like a cathedral of
Arrows
Underneath the stain glass noontime, and I try to
Pick out the bouquet of the girls I love,
Resting in the intersections of my mind-
There she is, receding over the everglades, even
As I drive home, and I give her a good recommendation
Through my spirits, as my words linger like ash
Dripping onto her amber lips- she remains
My muse- muse of Guerrero Mexico,
Muse of fireworks and scars:
Of lightning and of all the billfolds of the petty
White men:
Kneeling underneath the virgin in my tiniest foyer,
I pray to you and make believe that you can even
Feel me now- lingering through the orange groves
Of my spirit,
As the waves caress the Anglicism of the everglades,
Lingering nearer, and then departing-
The way housewives first determining the one whom
They love before fleeing to their homes.