The Waterfalls Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The Waterfalls



If you do not love me again tomorrow, Alma:
What then will I have to do,
Because you are the deepest river of my soul, even if my soul
Is misery:
Or if it is a buttercup, or a stammering mongoloid in the bright
Sunny lips of another classroom that it is somehow
Paradoxically too bright for,
Just as if it was too burning for publication:
Just as if it was a fish too deep down for the jubilance of the fair:
Or for wishing; it is still a thing that breathes and comes up
For breaths,
And it is still barbed by the shadows of your lovely existence:
That is was here, and thus it has always been,
While my house lies empty save for the perfumes of your adulterous
Sin;
And this is wavers and quivers, again, Alma- again against
The lines of a bosque in the night into which it is not thoroughly
Cover,
Or that it does not know if it can mine enough silver;
Because, surely, Alma- my brother in law is more beautiful than
I am, all armored in silver; but it matters little, Alma,
My love, as long as you sing to me in water fountains,
As long as your love for me drowns out the waterfalls.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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