While The Tadpoles Metamorphosis Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Here in the twilit distance of nothing that was ever
Perfect,
I hold your head against the ancient walls that cry with your
Spanish decrees:
That you were my first and only muse that I have made love
To,
And this, and now this:
The terrapin poking its head from the shell, as if from a bowling
Alley,
While your kids wonder and kiss the green arcades of nothing
That you have given to them,
Under the sun or your roof that I once made a bed out of, Alma;
And now all of this is floating like protoplasm,
Like the matters over our heads that can never be explained,
Like Christmas presents or the satyrs that can never be real,
But the airplanes come,
And the dogs chase the perfumes of your runny legs in the park,
And it is okay to be afraid, Alma;
And now this; and if I hold your lips up next to me and drink
While the tadpoles metamorphosis; why then, now everything.