To These Mountains Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Drinking, the body turns cold—like a cadaver
Hungering for the torch
The way carports huddle in the rain—
The used car salesman out of a job
As the planes fly in,
Floxes licking their lips and snapping thier
Jaws, leaping for stewardesses whom are too
High up in their sorority’s train—
Over somewhere there is a park,
And the nocturnal floods sucrease imperfectly,
Striking thier hidden flints against the tallows—
Trying to bear warmth to the nocturnes,
Some kind of warmth to these mountains who go
Without any names.