To Burn Myself Into Your Memory Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Pray to the birds in the nests of their pallid moons:
Far above the broken shells and armpits of eaten conquistadors;
And there is nothing really beautiful with all of this:
I am dying for a muse who lives with another man:
These are the gyps of abutments my grafittis shadow on the
Underbellies of a criminal world;
And it is hardly enough, all of the mountains I had to climb alone,
Cursing and blissing Sharon,
Never knowing how to tie my shoes:
And now I wonder how it is I have to die, drinking my bad wine,
And writing to Alma,
Writing to her all of the time: like teardrops like raindrops,
They lament that they will not survive;
But your body gives me reason to believe in the ceilings of
Heaven Alma:
You are my newest and most burning of muses;
And I want to take you to the Norton Art gallery to show you by
What methods you inspire me;
And soon you will be going back to school, to learn through the
Deep afternoon about nothing that never does;
And after we have separated and it rains outside and sad things curl
Up and growing clinging to stones,
Then I wish that you would stop your tears and look out of the
Abundance of transoms and hold your breath, trying to gather
Together the strange sticks which I previously gathered to burn
Myself into your memory.