From My Soul Poem by Robert Rorabeck

You have so many numbers:
Bodies attribute to their cars and those
To their streets—
Contemplating airplanes rise again—
They go to leave the sirens,
As men get up into other lives for
Another world—
Well, the sun just turns around,
And there is nothing very
Beautiful about that—
But her work speaks for itself—
It has found something indefinite:
It is stealing my heart away,
And counting the wealth
Now stolen from my soul.