The Tears Of A Juvenile God Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Veins of cold rivers burying over the vanished
Gold of young princes
Always on a journey up her shoulders:
Even above the trees
Is where the stewardesses and pilots
Have tea parties:
Where the lightning speaks five languages,
And the bears hold back from the
Parks of the gods:
I remember seeing them so far ago- worlds
Intermingled like dead bodies
Caressing in the melting snow-
A jumble of a bouquet with a nocturnal
Perfumes which highlights the veins
In the stones that curse the scars of
Their mothers: maybe they fell from the moon a long
Time ago,
And now they lie here in a masquerade
Of petrified vampires, waiting for the sweat
Off of some lonely hiker’s feet to fall upon them,
To touch them like the tears of a juvenile god.