In The Divinity Of Morning Poem by Robert Rorabeck

There will soon be a storm, where her tiny brown hands
Will come hunting mine,
Wanting to survive, while the waves play out like a nursery of
Carnivorous birds:
And Alma doesn’t want to make anymore adulterous fieldtrips
To the museums or the universities
Because she finds them boring; and they are tucked so far
Away into my yesterdays, anyways:
That I cannot remember how they affected me, how their
Bicycle thieves stole away with midnight the jubilance
In the panting transportations of girls I lived with who
I didn’t even love;
Just while the butterflies last for only awhile, and leaving their
Husks like flags over the empty cannons of coquina forts
Left alone even by tourisms,
As the moon makes love in the orchards: how will I ever explain
This to her,
While I wait for her- my Alma, to return:
That it all was beautiful, but left alone to the dying elements
In the highest rungs of the smallest things: how might it come
Down again, to bless me in the divinity of morning
With the loving winged twins of her burning lips.