The Deltas Of Burnishing Cities Poem by Robert Rorabeck

They have new villages in our town- like light bulbs
Turned on over a desert of ghosts and lost
Spelunkers:
Like a single rose curled up over the bones of
A rattlesnake transplanted
Over the corpse of a dead hooker:
And over her shoulder, a Mexican wandering where
The tears of the crocodiles have gone
Down a dry river bed sure that he will not have
Anymore adventures to pleasure:
While even then the airplanes and rocket ships
Take off to Europa and France
With fat thanksgivings in their hauls- while
Entire icebergs have sacrifices to corporations of
Gods- unto the deltas of burnishing cities,
Where my muse slumbers with eight other family
Members- lost away in a house no bigger than
The one in which I bachelor.