The Failing Of The Lines Of A Dying Empire Of Spiders Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Oh, it can come so far,
Or it can come so slow- oh;
It can be like the sea strained by the dying of
The moon:
Soft and mystical, but neither quite right
For the general audience;
And if you wait out long enough, you can see
Her just as a vision riding away on
Her bicycle: riding away-
The direction she is always going:
Because she is always hungry or lonely and
Wants to be in love,
But not with you: Listen to the way she is going,
Christening people other than librarians with
The liquor of her legs:
She is going, she is going, like the sea.
The mythology which unifies all the peoples of our
Grand large-eyed countries;
And I will give philanthropically to the dragon,
My cups to her horde, the anemic anonymity of my
Leisurely struggle:
My greatest scar I got on July 4th more than two years
Ago I got for her and liquor,
And it is the greatest proof that she exists,
And not yet like the extinct sun birds that with the frogs
From the carport of electric cars,
Not the like the failing of the lines of a dying empire of
Spiders:
Her name rings such mythology after midnight and if you
Awake early enough you might see her riding away
From the naked theatre outside your pool,
And all those other specific euphemisms no one reads,
Heading east to meet her lover
Who will soon be holding court over the oldest town in all of
America.