The Mountain's Demiurge Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Die in the mountain’s demiurge:
The disinfected basins where god sends
His clandestine lights,
The undulations of a blinding harem-
Crown yourself on the nippled summit;
Make the mountain your paramour,
Your nude conquest,
And, like a time traveler,
Kiss her faint lips-
The indistinct goddess you are on,
Or fall and become a disscommunicated
Angel,
Fled from the garden,
A fatal boy scout badge,
The first step to an everlasting coffin
Nameless under stone:
The lowest candle in the high hallways,
One of four anonymous lights,
And the dancing of silver bones
At the lip of the Christian mine:
At the precipice of season,
Where the miners’ spirits hold
The laughing festival beneath the elderly heavens:
Drink with them in the crops
Of mica, harvest the ores of eternity-
The zincs of their ancient irises,
And in the bizarre moonlight of quieted space,
Indulge in the longing truths of extinctions:
The breathless conquest and the
Cessations between the melodies,
The month’s rest before recovery,
Where the needles of hoary decay gnaw
The white off bones,
Disappearing the corporeal orchestras
Amidst the magnetic mountains,
The drumming basins where
Trusting lovers go to die,
And there to remain forever afterwards.