To The Flame Of Its Muse Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Tombs of rattlesnakes shaking rainstorms
In protest and jasmine after the tanks are all closed,
And even the cars have
All stopped their driving:
And then there is just the pale, pale monoliths
Softly repeating,
Going up and up over the sororities, like escalators:
Like elevators,
Like ladders into the bereavement of whatever heavens
That I am sure they are:
And they end in lighthouses,
And commercial airliners- or they end in little rooms
Far, far above this stuff:
Through the strata of pornographies and conquistadors,
And Labor Days and home room classes:
Through the shed papers of firecrackers newly bloomed,
And the trailer parks:
And the fruit markets: they end in a peaceful grotto
All to themselves
Where a single candle burns to the flame of its muse.