That Can Never Be Found By All That Tourism Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Each line a memory:
A truancy across the canal, a feeling in my bones of
Carnivalesque sparrows who don’t mind eating the meat
Of their same species,
Of lying in bed in the deep rituals of rainy some days
And kissing the dirts of their aunts;
And I have heard the hobos’ fugue; and I have slept out
On the granite palate of the graveyard
And watched the violet sky grow more distressed:
I have laid atop my ancestors and whished them all of the
Best,
And what of you- and your plans, kissing your men with
A smoking gun in your hands:
How are you riddled now, driving in your tangled means
Getting lost playing cops and robbers as it begins to snow
Through all the emptied trees:
The blushing buildings of your town crushing back into
The mountain,
But only going so far: and have you explored her
By bicycle or by foot: have you gone back into her emptiness
And espied a flower that I have grown for you with my
Mental powers;
One flower that can never be found by all that tourism which
Inhabits you; and I wonder if you have found her,
And found out who she was.