The Light-Bulbs Of All Of The Ferris-Wheels Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If you said we were both the prettiest ingénues in
The zoetrope of the gutters,
Why then we would be right here—
We would be a ring in your shadows—we would be
Calling to you like wolves and like
Wolverines—and so
The thirst gives out—and evaporates underneath
All of the airplanes,
Until there is only the fabric of this clause—
A needing thunderbolt half-given to all of the weathers
That could not birth you—
As you become the movie-theatre of a color that
Would not come completely to our tongues—
And we are almost home,
But here are still figuring out, like stupid horses into
The pastures of our ghettos—
And our half-witted thumbs feeling over the languages
That cannot be described by housewives as
They disappear by all of their number,
But then become awakened like stricken angels by
All of the light-bulbs of all of the Ferris wheels that
They couldn't understand.