Only Yesterday Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am now your song that never sings—halfway up the
Mountain's switchbacks and gone to proposition to your
Kings—
The cold antelopes stir—they are tired of being bed ridden
In the sauce—
They go a long ways across the holidays—and they have
A tendency to become inerrably lost:
And I loved you—and your sweet, sweet uncle has just left
My house—
The mountain sings in my backyard like a castanet:
It twirls, making an inconsistent dance of the heavens—
As I am afraid all that is beautiful is becoming lost—
My hand that has inerrably given is finally taken away:
The monsters tear down the labyrinths—and I imagine
As the heroes lie dying they
Smile, remembering how beautiful you looked only yesterday.