The Wrong Side Of The Mountains Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If you don’t wish for the job then I am here to help
Proposition you into vagabonding
In the penumbras of the most god fearing summits, where the
Over zealous bones of the hikers who knew no fear are
Still lost
And cenotaphed into the enjambments of a fearless dinner party
With the same looming grins of the foxes who leapt up to
Feast of their discombobulates-
It is here that there is some kind of resin that has escaped from
You, Alma, driving home in your car-
Where are you going, but into a world that knows not the
Feral calligraphies of my adulterating cartography:
There may even be new species under your bed, as you turn around
And make love to your man returned from
Mexico and decided up the fact that, in fact, there was no better
Woman that you: than you, my muse- my vida:
And it is true, and I happen beside you in the darkness, like an eel
Caracoling through the blindness of the corals that can
Still feel under the boot heels that make up the jubilations
Of pestilent and green tenements,
Of wedding parties of old muses and their friends; as all of my
Unction slips across you again and again like a blind man breaking his
Own hands with hammers and nails as he tries to build his own
House on the wrong side of the mountains.