Materials That Cannot Burn Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Good luck runs of four legs:
It has all the colors of gold your tongue would
Like to taste,
On rum and spikenard weaponries over the Gulf of
Mexico:
I will see where the whorish light leads tomorrow,
Drawing me light a catch on a filament’s line
Towards my new endearing sorrows:
I open up my fist and it seems to be housing a lighthouse,
All whitish and lined,
The dying men there are leaving the spittoon earth,
They are making love with their sister’s best friends,
They are coming out of the movie they just saw
And walking all-together with the others of their
Species,
Out of the darkness of the cave and into the wide-open
Night,
A feral wilderness where not a single airplane has yet
Been thought of by man or the mailmen
Who diligently post the letters sent to the half-hazard
Muse baking cakes in a blizzard
Far into the over-stretched daylights where the tourists
Break wind and ski-like ants,
Yet far beneath the eternal crèches I have summated to
Ask pity from these stars,
And to sacrifice to this muse materials that cannot burn.