Waiting To Grow Tall Enough Poem by Robert Rorabeck

So It happens that I am going down again into the fjords
Of body builders of throats and lips
And tongues to dredge up again the songs that will never move:
Here, eternally, my ever-loving sister is falling between the fjords,
As the pages are forever stuck together and this is just a
String of popcorn decorated around the Christmas tree:
This is just a necklace for Alma that she will never feel,
But it is all for her,
And soon it will be that I will die, and then I will just be just a lick of
Spit stuck by an inopportune kiss to some indescribable lick of wall:
And all of it will ever be remembered for the long lances of
Conquistadors who have just become indescribable again,
Disappearing again into the fabled mists of junked cars,
While the kidnappers get away with their innocent songs.
And the day revolves as if on carousels,
And for a moment the lion yawns, and I can remember how beautiful
You are, Alma, as if perfected in a perfect picture that never
Moves:
Nubile and receptive and attuned to all of the necessities nude
And open and waiting for and out upon the empty green jaws
That otherwise make an arcade for a beautiful nothing high out and far
Upon the unnamed johns of the deep and multiplying ranges:
Or whatever it is, while all of the kites sing and my father make money
High up the hallucinations and all of its cotton candy fables to the
Strange boys who happen to be waiting to grow tall enough to be
Called or then to be christened kings.