With So Many Songs Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It doesn’t happen that I am here and counting down
And brandishing magpies in my cathedrals,
And becoming all of the otherwise thoroughly unhooked,
And making love to the misaligned maypoles of the acolytes of
Paganistic cathedrals:
And now in whispers over all of those canals, where the winos
Have misappropriated the most blondish of blond boys
From their fieldtrips:
I settle down: and I hunker down, and I finally make a theme,
A day laborer in a day dream: of his burning soul, his
Gasoline, his Alma:
And I can still smell her brown skin coming for me like
A sheet on a clothes line through all of the burning sugar cane:
And it was that it happened that our loins met,
And we made love:
But however two butterflies or mariposas happen to meet
And make love, I don’t care, and I don’t wish to know:
All I do is sell fireworks: I sell Christmas trees:
And I have laid down in love with you, Alma,
And swatted the fires that burned across your sea: and this was
Enough to know for all of the love in me;
And I love you, and I burn up into a thousand ways of failure,
Just to warm you in a bed, in a kingdom who with so many songs
Of blue jays eating themselves have no further needs for me.