The Mountains Where The Wildflowers Are Sleeping Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Only the emotions of a seashell:
How the sea repeated her lulls, her vacancies
Into her,
Underneath the ceiling fan, like a horse galloping
In a windmill- votive words
That spill from the maiden’s lips before
She has to go to school,
Or sit at the bus stop and dream about milking
A cow:
Lines of a cover artist kissing coral snakes-
As the morning evaporates and is proven
Something unreal:
Easter eggs across the train tracks like
Catholic churches, and the brown girl who is
My muse: she worked at the fruit market today,
But where did she go? Where did her heavens drift
Off to, and now my words loiter for her
Underneath the jewelry of leaping airplanes
That do not linger, for they go
Skipping across the very oceans, as if their
Great waters were but canals dredged by a god
Who doesn’t live here anymore: his vacant house not only invaded
By the usual nocturnal forays, but their perfumes
As well- as another virgin is resurrected from the grave:
She stops and smells of the lavenders of
Abused cheerleaders underneath the midnights of
All of the mountains where the wildflowers are sleeping
In unified sorority together.