The Vanishing Highway Poem by Robert Rorabeck

As fires eventually die over the once
Laughing sinks of your own lips,
And the ships proceed over the banished
Senses of
The lighthouse, I strike out again,
As the serpent peels its own skin over
The knees of the eucalyptus-
And the vanished papers are read to the
Vanished pilots,
And it feels okay that the blindest sorority
Is swimming in the perfumes
Of the senseless heavens- and you sell your
Own ablutions underneath the mountains,
Where your every own daughter grows
Upright and stalwart like a fire Marshall
Who will not approve me
As I continue to try pretend to try and sell
My very own soul outright and for
Next to nothing in the easement of the
Vanishing highway.