To Find Oneself Climbing Towards Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The mountains go up and up until they hug themselves
Shivering in the cold and open throats of playboys;
We have climbed up here to see how little that they are selling,
To see the whole jubilance like matches teasing the fire,
Where lost souls have been put to sleep by lightning,
Where little girls have been blown from the tricks of keystones
Into the gentling passes of abyss:
Underneath here the wildflowers dance like leggy and pistilous
Girls;
And they love their short seasons, how they are pollinated by
The demigods of angels- and they dream of fire trucks that they
Hear the answer to further down in the water parks of those
Dells
Where something is being sold to everyone, and your legs mark the
Splits in the concrete like track stars making it easily to lunch;
But it is still something that I do not like to see, the simulacrum that know
But one or two things, and this it does beautifully routine;
And you have never been to my house, and neither have I,
But it is up here somewhere, a worthy destination to find oneself
Climbing towards.