On The Lam Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Arrows, arrows in her hair, calling for the summer
Stare,
Like robins, robins out in the perch, red birds waiting in a lurch,
And miners, miners cresting the golden
Crawl,
Like sunbathers taking in their haul:
And horses manes flower over water that is like glass,
As the hobos step empty footed across the
Overpass,
Where weeds cry up to angels that they cannot sing,
As bicycles drift away to Spring;
And Alma casts her eyes once more out upon the world that becomes
Her shore,
Every morning she awakes, and her eyes whisper like brown
Wedding cakes, out upon my softly padded bones:
I wish for her, and I bemoan the subtle fates that waited too long
For us to break together as two waves out on the make:
And maybe we will get together on our days off and rob
Banks,
Or in the least see the art exhibits as the pen,
Or the asphodels in the gardens as they come, and come again:
The graveyard whispering the names of its two lovers on the lam.