The Keyhole Of Little Bear Mountain Poem by Robert Rorabeck

There were virgins: singing bodies of little girls
Up in the keyhole of Little Bear Mountain—
How they'd gotten there after all of the boy scouts,
Securely knotted together, had fallen—
It beats me—maybe they floated there—or rode upon
The backs of high leaping grasshoppers or
Took a train that had gone off the tracks to vanish—
Anyway, the snows around them turned to pearls—
And they were laughing and eating tuna fish sandwiches
All day—
I heard them from my blue and yellow tent—like a
Jellyfish or yellow jacket down in the stickers and foliage—
I had plans of selling fireworks, but there weren't
So much tourists as there were arrowheads, red berries,
And mosquitos—and this wasn't my art, anyways—
It was there—but their echoes died when the sun went down
And school let out—maybe they had somewhere else to
Go—but I really think that they stayed up there in
The night and metamorphosed, as if that was what they
Were meant to do—I am sure that the stewardesses never
Saw them—They were already gone—
And who ever read about them but very few—the clouds
Over shadowed the moonlight—and raindrops fell down on
My cheeks and scars, and I crawled away from there
In the morning and drowned myself in bards—
And whoever else heard of those little girls crawling up there
Into the highest kindergartens of the world—I never knew—
But the winds blew, the raindrops fell,
And the airplanes flew.