The Beating Hearts Of Her Wounded Children Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Scarred without any goals, the unicorns return to
Home base,
The beautiful flowers percolate and it seems that I
Am getting old,
Sucreasing poetry and as often as not forgetting to kneel
And pray to the
Virgin of Guadalupe, procrastinating on the washing machine
As on the windmills:
And otherwise just getting drunk and visiting ladies of the
Night,
Caracoling around Alma house and howling mute and blind:
Because there my soul lives across the train
Tracks curl in the brown sheets of prisms and skin,
Her love already dispersed into the beating hearts of her wounded
Children.