To The Bosom Of Mountains Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Never sing to the bosom of
Mountains anymore:
Their beauty gone, burned up by the fire that
Pushed all of the bob cats forward
And the planes along—
With my parents lonely beneath her:
She isn’t waiting for me to sing to her anymore:
There is a cloud at her knees
As she squats—the opals are gone from her throat
Like thieved cadavers—
But the beautiful lights of werewolves play
Across her shoulders,
Bathed in the full-full-
Full moonlight,
As I eat my lunch in a room far beneath her,
My head cocked to the waves: to the sea horses and
The mermaids,
With the virgins singing a lot in their grottos
To my muses across so many hiccups and caesuras:
To my wife of another land—
But the mountain I once sang to,
She has no words for this:
She just sits there; her lamp is blind—
The airplanes diadem her sporadically—but she couldn’t
Care—scarred, un beautified—but still
She has no reason to understand.