With Her Other And More Nameless Of Men Poem by Robert Rorabeck

With Her Other And More Nameless Of Men



I am not alright to feel these wordless things:
Wingless, like wingless airplanes:
I am not alright to move again, until the days come
With all of their fathers
Lifting up all of their children; and I am not alright again,
Thirstily down at the foothills of my mother’s
Most precious of mountains, where she was raised
And where she has come again,
And lifted up across all of the snows and the caracoles of
Tourisms,
Lifted up even past the youngest and most vibrant of
Overpasses,
Who are like hopeful suitors rising their backs like saddles
Of the rushes of virile flowers to her:
Of which of them my she choose, I cannot choose for her;
And it does not feel alight to wish for any of them,
While all of those fish are swaying underneath the manes of
Panting lions,
As the school buses make their rounds again across the vibrantly
Weed-strewn yards where me soul is sleeping off a ways again;
And where Alma is sleeping again, off a ways from the path
Again with her other an more nameless of men.

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Robert Rorabeck

Robert Rorabeck

Berrien Springs
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