Towards A Beast Of My Lovely Soul Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The candles fix themselves after their mother has
Died, and the paper airplanes
Fold their own wings: you can look for me on the other side
Of the canal,
And listen to my voice the wind sings through the cypress eaves:
And I am scarred and full of sorrows,
And I keep on taking back, and wishing my promises were more
Heartfelt; or that the Virgin of Guadalupe could get up
And stretch her wings and flying the same paths as the flight attendants,
Who cast through the shadows until their burning wheels are
Cooled;
And then in the places that they land that I don’t know: well, goodbye,
Like graveyards in the south of France
Where little girls take little ants onto the spittoons of their wrists,
And they talk to their silly things all day while real boys and
Marionettes who are training to lie for themselves,
Take the trains in and out of heaven- and the other places where I
Should not belong- but you will still come high tomorrow,
In a silken pedigree out besides all of those mailboxes,
Rubbing elbows with the gods who are wearing gasmasks afraid to
Breathe the same air as my muses, their horses, and cowboys,
Who all are smiling down through the rich substances of the valley
That pitch the cerulean tents of dollhouses and the other model
Games that my knuckles crack like firecrackers in the lips of
Roses; and in increments towards a beast of my lovely soul- toward
My Alma, methodically moves.