The Most Intrepid Of Airplanes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Starting all out all of the runners know the words of
Their joy,
But eventually only the best will know the absence of fatigue,
And they will molt the histories
Until the angels leap around them like the bonfires of teenage girls:
And how now I can barely even remember my times in
Gainesville and Tallahassee,
And the times I spent pining for them all night long through the
Reticulated sidewalks of those slums:
Though even now I sleep alone, I have crested so many ant hills,
And tasted the wines from so many caesuras of the Spanish
Dry lands that I now have no more fear of losing my love
For you:
Alma; and maybe it is that you have never made a single thing out
Of wet clay, but you have made my love by just being awakened in my day:
And oh how I love you- and how our love is strong in the darkness,
Like a tree felt up by a blind man who can’t even speak about it:
Our love continues upwards through the sky and is gossiped by
The stars and is gently felt by the leaping bellies of the most
Intrepid of airplanes.