The bodies pull their strings hard to the south <br />And the whole armada turns like boys in pornographic <br />Dreams who still have <br />To wake up early tomorrow to sound of into the sinister mirages <br />Of dragonflies and their ululating of <br />Poisonous opulence: <br />And I pray to the virginsita that soon I might die, but that Alma <br />Can live forever <br />And take her place in the opulent sky: that she might still become <br />The clairvoyance of her favorite color, <br />Or that she might live forever in Ocala, just under the chin <br />Of where all of the chicken white students will be studying forever <br />In their successive generations of nothingness: <br />Because that now the storm clouds have bruised my eye: <br />And I am too drunken to drive, <br />But my body still feels warm from the fires of a poem; <br />And Alma is so close, and almost reaching her is like almost <br />Reaching the surface that I need to survive.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-surface-that-i-need-to-survive/
