Like Spanish Fields Poem by Robert Rorabeck

My sad youth can almost smell your
Bolero,
When there is nothing left to spell and
Just lightning stores;
And I have been in and out
And in and out of Arizona and New Mexico;
And that is where my dogs are now in a lightning
Storm:
Tonight I looked at her youthful body in a room
Almost full of crepuscule,
Like a guitar in Spain, what the artists
Accumulate for;
Youthful séance of the time we have yet to live,
Truck dealers who have yet to deal with
The hours of pain- Never a truck filled up with
Cement or citrus:
And the day starts out like this glorious, and it
Was well worth it;
So the pain mummifies, prostitutes in their
Perfumed mausoleums waiting out the storm willfully then
Come out into the yard and smell the
Opening sky,
Like Spanish fields of
Purple butterflies.