Like A Beatiful Wish On A Beautiful Birthday Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Words underneath the palate of a grave,
Crawling like worms, even while there is nothing left
Upon the bones to save;
And quietly the river dreams even through its most
Uproarious streams:
And fish go that way: they can only go this, and the night gets
Older until it gets younger,
And then it perhaps gives births to births and deaths:
And the children come out through the open mouths of yards,
Who are all of one color, Alma’s favorite color;
And when I am near her my heart feels that it can stop vagabonding
And enjoy the delightfully brown midways of the fair;
And it is enraptured, and holding her hand I am without a care:
And the lonely night is just a trifle as long as I can awaken
And find Alma like a candle, like a beautiful wish on a beautiful
Birthday awaiting me there.