The Whispers Of Their Birthdays Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The foundations of your barcodes look good
From here- they seem to be sleeping in their windowsills,
Just like the wives you have chosen
While the traffic drives all night, especially the trucks
Of housewives,
But I have fed all of my bread to the lips of
The sumo goldfish- I have fed all of my wrists to
The orange angels who arent even a primary color:
I believe there or only two or three primary colors,
As the midnight comes
With its blind sun, and swims in the rugs of my
Kindergarten
Like tulips falling their during night time:
Falling their, trying to figure out whom I love,
Or what love was stolen from me,
While in their estranged grottos, the dolphins play
Their games beautifully,
And the virgins light the candles in the whispers
Of their birthdays.