In The Gas Station Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Wounds in the gas station,
And I have come this way before—
Looking beneath the airplanes touching
Down like falling stars,
Or exhausted—working class angels—
In words like fingerprints of
Pornography,
I leave my traces of you during the grave shift
Over the preposterous tanks that seem
To forage beneath the burnt out hills,
And the Cyclops's of watch towers—
New words abandoning the once
Seemly valleys like mares
And beautiful women who have found
New firemen and heroes—
And there they are, piling into the movie
Theatres of the bedrooms—
Ready to close their eyes and awaken again
In their exhibits of wax bodies as their houses blissfully burn down.