Mountains Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Mountains are as sure of themselves as I am of
You,
And now I am hitting the bottle hard Alma,
The serpents sleep in the folds of a rainbow left
Like foundlings by the short-
Tempered clouds;
And it all seems like a miracle, and the angels snow:
My throat burns,
And I’ve been hanging my toes and watching as
The fires burn down from the stars:
It seems as if they are always having so many
Birthdays up there,
And they don’t even know who they are.