Where The Devils Creased Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If I have existed forever, I have only been remembered
In the writings of love,
Then the horses stand still when it snows, and the moon is
Covered up while she is cold by
Furtive blankets; and then it feels this way all across the
World,
That the virgins are crying for the wild flowers again,
Because in the highness of the patriotic basins,
Only the flash pan of the silver pot bellied airplanes are
Leaping,
And each stewardess inside their winged lamps just
As callous as a math or gym teacher from second grade:
Except that for somewhere beyond her extend,
And through the wilderness and wild trash of finished
Baseball games, she really exists:
She is maybe even right there over the railroad tracks:
Even while she, your muse, your Alma, told you today that
She had never ridden in a train;
And you told her the story of how you took one to Washington
DC in Fifth grade:
Then you held hands with her all the way in the car, until
Her man called and she had to go home, and prepare the feast
That her family would enjoy even after the fires had died,
And all of the horses had wandered off, and disappeared
Into the wilderness that seemed to envelop where the devils creased.