Wounds don’t becalm: if anything, they are growing like <br />Calves: <br />The sea is in infancy of green, and Alma is smiling and laughing <br />In the exact middle of the fruiteria: <br />It seems as if I have gone away on a quest and found her there, <br />And made love to her repeatedly <br />While buying her things, though I do not know if she is <br />A glorious monster or the all-mother of my progeny: <br />I know that she says that she is no good, <br />While her eyes smoke golden brown over all of that skin diademed <br />By all of that jewelry: <br />All of the wishes that I have found or bought for her, and thus <br />Made real, <br />While all of the saints go marching over the sea; and I wonder if she <br />Is even at home, or how many rings she will be wearing tomorrow: <br />I wonder if she wonders how much her children really need her: <br />Or if they need her as much as I need her, <br />While the sea is changing its graces, and I have come by the final things <br />Second hand, <br />While all of the angels that I was fortunate enough to know are <br />Too busy weeping or were so fragile that they have already passed away.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-final-things-second-hand/
