Going Into Wind Tunnels Poem by Robert Rorabeck

In my cars- no one- no one,
But underneath the overpasses, shadows, red moss:
Where they should have been selling something-
A stain of rainbow over the concrete,
Weeping mascara of a torn away promise-
An eel in the sea that is an
Aunt to other eels, accordingly, like a lost ribbon
Stolen away from a house wife-
Herself torn away from a lighthouse before a hurricane:
And the storm is coming up over a world of ghosts:
The weathervanes shirk their telling signals:
The orange groves rustle,
And the lights of an indistinguishable mass hover
Before the throats of the sugar cane in which the herons
Haunt,
Waiting for a telling signal- or a wish to blown their
Hopes into the sky,
Kindling their senses into the other world:
Underneath the traffic echoes- going into wind tunnels
That sing of a Christmas to no one- no one.