Of Heaven's Beam Poem by Robert Rorabeck

What flesh—And nude in the daylight
Of a starfish—
As the consumers come to it—not knowing that you
Can be divided by any number—
The housewives so unkind—
Not knowing how beautiful you might become
Knocked out beside any canal
Lost in the daydreams that slip away beside
Soft shelled tortoises—
Until the day burns like a beacon and all of the
Fireworks swim and
Spin—
All turned out, like lips around a bottle of
Gin—
Even after high school is lost, burned out, or gone:
And all of the televisions are over,
And the cars have turned away—heading home,
Like a sea this is hungry—
And the great philosophy is hefted up to the stars
And to werewolves, who are no existent—none the less—
They will bury their relatives underneath of museums
As the heavens and the comic strips—
And I will burn everything else down that in inconsequential,
Struggling up the mountain until I have a wife
Or pinball—
And can be counted with all of the rest—and not
In a daydream, but in a grotto of a carport—
Gazing upwards as all of the lavishing sides of heaven's beam.