Of Your Even More Infinitely Unmolested Shores Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am whispering the halftruths of my own obedience:
That I have slept the night underneath the nocturnal helicopters
Of a house near your house that was falling away
Like love letters dying like uneven petals in a game of she loves me
Or she loves me not:
And this is how it happened that I used to get off the bus from high school
And was immediately attacked by bullies for being so strange,
But I could even smell you scent right there, Alma:
This is how it happened next to a mailbox amidst the mists and in the
Unholiest games of love:
This isn’t proper English: this is how the banished turtledove sings to the
Waves it can never appropriate:
This is how we beat the system, Alma: this is how we still listened to the
Fireworks in the sad kingdoms of the neighborhoods long since after
They were gone going off:
This is a hobo making love to the emptiness of the night:
This is the dreams of the novels I have felt up along a certain stretch of
Military trail,
And this is how I want to call you, Alma:
This is only how I want to call you: and I know that you are Mexican,
And so may be more declined to take many lovers,
And thus reflect this on me,
But other than this I am only a graveyard and until this graveyard comes
A cemetery:
Otherwise, I love laying you down and kissing you lips:
I love laying you down to call you awake and home to town and to the
Principal’s office;
And this is how my soul sings, swinging its immaterial body in the cages
Of the same things that you swing:
This is my last attempt at nothing’s nothing- and I know that it is unutterably
Unbeautiful, Alma, but it is all of your thing: and I recognize you, Alma,
And I humbly bow to receive the reign of my queen:
For you are that butterfly at the end of the rainbow: undeniable, unavoidable,
And more beautiful than the caesuras of the blush ingest canyons, and more
Divine than the summits of the Colorado Rockies:
I am receptive to you; and I am waiting for Friday, because nothing else
Will survive:
I push all of my bouquets into your hands, like rushing kisses onto
Your shore, hoping for the silence of machine guns,
Hoping for your unabusive answers, while the silliest of kings reign,
And the dolphins lay like satiated drunkards upon the infinite grains
Of your even more infinitely unmolested shores.