In A Possibility Of Unending Directions Poem by Robert Rorabeck

What do I know about all of these,
Watching the make believe of bodies
Trying to create the fire
One last time
Across the gravestones of abandoned churches
Up in the clefts where it is still too
High for trees to breathe:
Where I’ve thought of you, through the
Confections of evaporated tourism-
Where I tried to evolve myself:
Above the white washed monuments and the state
Fairs,
And every day of breath sliding into the cooling
Recreations of the canals-
Where they keep their arcades, in the hidden
Alcoves, where the girls do not have to
Sing anymore: they can just nod off while
The laundry does itself
And the plethora of airplanes kisses across the
Nighttime sky in a possibility of unending directions.