To Her Love Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If the earth grows dry of voice, now this:
Autumn curling through the parks and estuaries of
Fairy princesses who are no longer even there;
And it is nice to be working beside the Mexicans,
Making a pittance so as not to despoil my soul:
Working beside Alma too, which means the same thing,
Looking up and getting nose bleeds underneath the southbound
Bellies of the usually unusually leaping airplanes;
And when I drive through her predominantly Hispanic
Neighborhood on my days off, getting so close to her house,
I can see the bleeding of old iron works rising up like
The false petitions of a god who by some fire abandoned
The women of his forest;
And now the heady frames recall a Ferris Wheel of Iron
Pyrite, while whatever wishes I once had crawl up to her in my
Overworked dreams and dissolve themselves this way
In the avenues of old hats that they have to go immolating the wishes
Of her birthday; and her sister will be coming to work at the
Market on Sundays, even while I swear I am leaving to sell
Pumpkins and Christmas trees, as our hemisphere tilts further
Away from the wetbacks of the star that gave us the first
Instruments that would eventually lead to the knowledge of our science,
Just as my heart would lead me to her love.