To The Rivers Or The Woods Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Unfathomable numbers of one or the other,
Almost endless hallucinations of the sexes,
Both happening in the opposable gloom
In various degrees of destitute or beatification:
And Erin is there,
Glad of bicycles coming all of a sudden out of
Crepuscule
Like serious cocaine, cauliflower, or gangsters;
And you could look straight up at her and lose yourself,
And call it a Christmas tree
While the sea bares repeating; and then all day long
The work-class would have a lark,
Figuring out how best it was, and how easy it was to
Love a certain number:
You could draw her out of fine clay pot, like the
Hangings of a ghost,
All of the pumice of distended antlers or the cremations
Of your aunts;
And then Diana would have to come again,
Busy with her business, all of those wildflowers yoking
With the lifting of the cold, the higher valleys beginning to
Play heavy rock and roll,
And then you could tell her just how much you loved
Her, since she then would have the same number of
Limbs as you;
As she no longer budded, as long as she chose to remain
With you, and did not return to the rivers or the woods.