To The Places I Could Never Belong Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The antediluvian lights go out, and my hand falls upon her
Undervalued knees; it is easier to speak to her with the crosshairs of
A feral tongue,
To become for her more and less human, a forest fire too licking
Her salts she turned back upon:
And she told me this Thursday in the semidarkness that the blinds helped
To douse, that I took too long;
After she moaned in a headdress of sheets, like something that
Was learning to fly, but came down thirtily on my wounds
And multiplied- and green was her favorite color;
And it fit: that she had succeeded from Mexico, where I wished that
I had known her as a little boy:
And from those springs that tasted her virginity, I had tasted the soul
Of my kindling muse:
My Alma, and read out behind her house the poems of horses that
Would never disappear, even after she has wantonly traveled
Home again to the places I could never belong.