The Lost Tears Of The Most Beautiful Of Women Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Up in the attic of redressing conifers,
I cannot help but to imagine what we are going to
Sell today,
As all of the stewardesses yawn and open their
Eyes,
Redressing- winnowing like spry cables that leap to
The skies,
Their hairdos toasted with marmalade and romances
By the
Buzzing specters of the enamored glades:
From which the alligators are sure fine, and lethargically
They are sure to bight the hands that feed
Them come picking time,
As the roads all get thinner and more out of work,
And the songs about them harder to remember, the skies
More clouded:
Soon there will be rain enough to discover where the
Extinct Indians are buried,
Under the tollbooths between the caesuras spending
Their Sundays saddling atolls:
It seems that they had strange romances with the conquistadors,
For they both sleep together in the salty fevers
Decorated by the flowers of orchards who have soon lost
Their way,
As they come over the forts of coquina, and flaunt in the
Shadows of the overpasses in the underwater flea markets
Drowned by the lost tears of the most
Beautiful women to ever have run away from Mexico.