Where It Never Snows Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Folded up into a showroom of our bodies:
Boiling cadavers over spilling for pirates at the beach:
Old words found on the lips of
Trailer parks-
She works on Mondays, and has no room for love,
And we move alone being chased by a zoetrope of
Our shadows,
Everything we have to say, drunken, furtive
And dismissed by the greater discoveries in the stars:
Like any bit of desert out there in the barren spheres
Between two adversaries:
In a strange and meaningless path that her grandmother
Had to cross, being led out by her special saints
Into a new town to find a job
And a place to keep her horse where it never snows.