Their Striking Loves Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Jasmine in a summer creak, pin wheeling,
Perfume as blanketed as if some snow lingered there
Invisible in the vermilion dew;
And tiny brown footsteps wimpling the grass over strewn
With the twin bodies of your sisters, somehow having escaped
From their bedroom:
All of Mexico seems to sing down from the mountains and
The cantinas,
And there isn’t a car in the world, as I can feel you all around me,
Looking through the curtains of the trees,
Migrating through them as the last of the dusk falls upon the mailboxes
Satelliting the houses further down and never seen,
As you give an insurmountable beauty to the tranquil ferality of
A romantic scene,
Your eyes batting whispers up into the rhinestone clouds, as if wondering
What should be growing there,
In the orchards slip away across the mysterious hills whose emerald
Bossoms no cartographer’s map should ever rightly feel,
But who come down like mockingbirds over my bacheloring rooms,
Sometimes telling me of their striking loves.