That Wonderous Religion That I Name After You Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I have been up and down the trail
In all seasons, hoping for you as the aspens
Change:
There can be nothing more beautiful than
Your absence along my misspelled
Highways-
Alone in the suburbia’s after crepuscule, all the
Mailboxes down,
The power lines singing in swaybacked choruses,
Erin in her heirlooms really caring nothing
For me;
In Saint Louis or Colorado, and further up;
And in those mountains of lightning storms and
Torn presents where the topiaries of
Giants sing,
Where the hermits guzzle and the ghosts tank;
Then I have seen you there- a muse of my nourishments,
And I have let every sort of weather drench me
In the milky bath of stars, in the cloistered perfumes
Of wild rosaries,
I have said my prayers while the antlers jounced like
Courtesans,
And you laid in your absent beds with your more precious
Men,
The ceiling fans caracoling your sepias features;
Never knowing that my feet continuously beat as hotly as
Unconditional candles
For that wondrous religion that I name after you.