All Of My Lamentations Poem by Robert Rorabeck

It comes up to this, and then it goes forever away:
Lapping and making love and counting the strokes that is necessary
To acquire each color,
And I have lived alone for so long that it isn’t even necessary to
Matter;
And the girls who I once loved before and during class,
They too have ceased to exist, for now my palate consists of only
One name and one color,
And she has reconciled, or whatever she has done, and she is
Sleeping with one man underneath the carpentering waves
Of the burnished sun;
And maybe she remembers his name as she sleeps;
And her name is Alma- and she is my fatal muse,
For it is for her that all of my lamentations
Weep.