The Steepening Hillsides Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Jaundiced by the pinafores and the pain:
Here I go running again,
With or without the paths up through the nosebleeds
Of tourists,
Crying out her name through the scars of golden
Aspen and exeunting grizzly bears:
Here is a car filled with pornography, across the street:
Across the canal and up the hill:
Here is the pain I have less than delivered;
While my mother makes love to my father alone,
Before so many horses:
And I wonder if she wonders about how many times it has
Been that they have made love,
Like letters mailed into her: and how many times it was
Before I was conceived, and my sisters:
Like my own muse: how many times did he thing of entering
Her,
Before he finally did, and customers started coming in to the
Fruit market,
And cars started passing through the street like bottles with
Impotent genies filled only with my thoughts of
Her and zygotes
In a merry go round in a fetish of zoetropes grazing through
The blindness out in the front yards of the open wounds
Of old lovers,
Like paper cuts burning in the fingerprints of lonely muses
As they busy themselves with the places that they should
Stash their stolen bicycles:
Because tomorrow they are even sooner to be married,
And then they will have no excuses for such equipment,
Even as the cement dries, as their lactates evaporate
Against the adulteries of the sunlight; as the bodies of their
Chariots pull themselves up the steepening hillsides,
Burning their oils, as whatever gods they hope to believe them
Give them further excuses to proceed.