The Space Upon The Canvas Poem by Robert Rorabeck

All of the chassis burn inside the land of
A silent sun:
As all of her wickedness finally eclipses the last lamp
Light of a Christmas tree-
Until she is all turned out and burning:
Burning—why,
She might As well burn the whole thing down—
As she is the exact same thing as my Laundromat
Shed of foreskins in the last days of
Its epiphany—
And a zoetrope here—and katydid upon her white
Arm or elbow-
As she bends back and forth as a white swan trying
To breathe—
The traffic passes by her and her lawn—
And they are almost beautiful to believe—but the
Sea and the day swells and swells,
Taking up all of the space upon the canvas—
Leaving no room for nothing less than all that is perceivable
To be ultimately believed.