Up All The Mountains Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Flesh of sows spread over the transoms of
Ghosts,
And the poor men cannot vacation, but look where
I have been,
Up all the mountains and their skirts,
And atop of Alma’s roof; and I’ve had that goddess in
My bed,
While it is almost time to close- The men with great
Big smiles laughing make-believe in the
Exterior sun;
Why they don’t know where it is they go when they
Sleep,
But the places are yet here to remember, echoing,
Echoing and
Measurelessly deep.