The Storefronts Of Her Blossoming Soul Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Switchbacks disappear halfway up the
Already vanishing heavens'
And you have to scramble with the hooks of
Your evolving soul'
And not even a single angel will take note
Of your most hollow of
Victories 'with only your car waiting down
There beneath you'
Headlights draining the battering like
Some type of parasitic intelligence'
Your sisters making love to their eventual men
In the deserts of another country'
Your father a prince with amnesia'
And your mother enthralled to a werewolf'
So you pin your art to the hidden classroom
In the apiary of her stone guts
Hanging breathlessly above tree line'
And you start out again, becoming enlightened by
False summits 'the day perpetuating its
Perfect tattoos upon your skin'
The tourists dining beneath you,
And melting into the storefronts of her blossoming soul.