The Vantage Point Of Their Lonely Studios Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Bottles hidden under couches which turn out
To be beds:
Bottles on top of red cement, bottles spinning
Burning with questions:
Bottles the answer to this;
My face bleared with roses and abandoned highways,
And cars abandoned,
And forts except for their mad soldier blooming fireworks:
And Kellies are in the sky,
Rippling as if with banners of all her men,
The kaleidoscope of her delinquent theatre, the rosaries
Of her body’s tattoo;
And I am fully scarred and pretty, and I think of her,
Because I have nothing left in who I am:
And she sees her children as dolphins swimming beneath her,
Swimming through the immense greenness of this underage
Garden,
Going towards the sounds of dinner, like bottles spinning
Attune to the whistling of such an immense foreclosure;
For when her eyes are closed, everything is going to
Shut down,
And the parks disappear under the stipulation of her closing
Heirs,
And her perfumes leave us just as transfixed as bachelors
Staring down at the beautiful lesbians who are playing just like
The pinkest otters from the vantage point of their lonely
Studios.