Like The Penumbra Of A Candle's Flame Poem by Robert Rorabeck

They will bloom by themselves, though the window is
Empty—
The supermarket and the parking lot is empty:
They are ghosts, they do this anyways—someone is playing
A violin over the pornography across the street—
There is not a single girl that is yet dead—
The goldfish and the cat—
The fair is still in the town—the bottlerocket is only halfway lit:
And you are leaping into my arms like the penumbra of
A candle's flame—
Maybe today is your birthday—maybe tomorrow will be the same.