Or In The Waves Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Up in the numbers of trees
And the other high abutments of the nosebleeds of things:
Here in the windows of the franchises of our gods is where
Our forefathers saw the bald-headed eagles who seemed to
Represent the origins of our things:
And they sang out wickedly—and cruelly
That we were the first of our continent to discover electricity—
So, so long to fire—
And the haunts of grizzly bears—and to cave paintings:
Now,
Electronic butterflies
And the deaths of Indians kitty-corners to the super markets—
To the bassinets of the elbows of narcoleptic airplanes—
And my wife is asleep,
While I am turning a corner—or,
Where is she—
While the electronic diamonds blaze: and this is her song,
Turning in the arcs of a million blazes of homonyms—
They sound together, anyways—
Truth in their eyes, and in their mouths the juices—
Pornographies of conquistadors
And their extinguished exploits—anyways—
While the billboards sing of newer and brighter gods—
And my wife lies asleep in the shell-rock
Or in the waves
Anyways.