So Many Things Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Putting off here, pulling up into a park
Of elbows and graveyards filled with grandmothers and
The old axels of their swings:
Trying to plant roses: roses, or anything:
Just trying to make love, and to stay warm into the dark:
As if this was your cabin
And I was the spark- in a flambé way up in the erstwhile
Resonations of those mountains,
Where the wolves were reintroduced and you were never
Coming down:
Where the tourists flocked between your knees to drink
Your desserts and
Spirits and then to go a little further along their ways:
To sleep in the narrow gage train cars between Silverton and
Durango:
To only go so far up the hill, god blessing the angels in the
Pages of their billfolds- angelic spirits
With the faces of the forefathers of old men bivouacked
In spider webs, ham mocked beneath the sugary apertures of
The stewardesses who, opened armed,
Fly so far in the sanctions of their airplanes: that they travel
All of the distances of the earth,
Making love to so many gods, and learning how to spell so
Many things.