The Illusions Built Up In The Sky Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Hold outs for a while who forget their sleep—
They seem to be holding on,
Pageants over the most beautiful abysses of
The most abysmal canyons: you cannot see them,
But they are down there—archeologists—
The dogs digging through a kaleidoscope of
Unhoused smells—words in a vision of
Others senses—while, in the high basins
Where the ghost towns yet haunt,
There are serving up their smorgasbords
Jubilee to no one—by whatever means
He gets there, as the graveyards turn into
Golf courses so far beneath them—
And presidents and lucky men
Seem to take their turns in the illusions built
Up in the sky.