The Vanity Of The Last Of The Earthmen Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I am searching out the frequency
For the vanity of the last of the earthmen:
Before I saw them in their time silver toothed,
Driving in their developments
Supplementing money for love to buy
Survival kits for their two and one half children:
Even then, they were taking off
To cavalier entanglements with the
Woman who worked part time in department
Stores,
The languid hypocrisy of unwedded thighs
Taking in for the night the strangers already spoken for.
Note the eyes, the way they tangle,
The bicycle spokes the souls abstractions,
The facsimiles they share with the earliest androids,
And the unspoiled nights awash in nocturnal paradise.
Now, there is only the empty shore,
And the goliath behind sinking into the world.
Nothing moves, but the things which should move,
Those who are given to purpose and secret will.
The things that were left unsold, the clothing,
The skins, everything that was put on,
Though still on display, will never be found,
For there is only in its stratifications the echoes,
The places where the wanting hands fell
Yet fall no more, in reverence for extinction,
Unparsed lips in tranquility say nothing at all,
As the day bows without encore, and in commences
Every night.