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