In Colorado Poem by Robert Rorabeck

When you get up in Colorado,
You are not my muse: your children
From another man
Suckle either of your breasts equally if
For awhile:
Maybe it is because of you that they believe
In carnival—
As the clouds queue into the mountain’s
Nipples,
And the fairies of sleep leap down from them
To bathe in the glaciers milked into their
Bosoms:
And there you are, rind in the hillside—
Myth of my high school—and you are not
My muse,
As another night rides over my shoulders
Like a passengerless airplane—
And I am a homeless man off to feed the giants:
And I am married too—
Your eyes are blue,
And you are not my muse