To The Spider's Web Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Sacrifice to the spider's web,
Underneath the airplanes and the bats that fly
Out of the cauldrons and
Witchcraft without stewardesses—
Enveloped in the blind acrobatics of a beauty's
Midnight,
They funnel over the universities like a narcoleptic
Daydream,
Fulfilling themselves with the ranges of solitude—
They know nothing about the beauties of the finest
Of women—
In fact, all of the housewives have already gone
Indoors—but they are out, collecting
Their silent infatuations to the strange atmospheres—
Until they cannot be resolved
Until the minute of the hour—
Into whatever felicitations they find themselves,
Run away to the bitter cul-de-sacs,
And to the crawling icebergs—and I love you
Crawling into the graveyards after the storms
Have stolen all of the plastic roses—
And the pilots have touched their bones to
The ground forever to sleep.