Through The Offerings Of His Day Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Cave of envelopes in your dreams-
I’ve been sleeping for a while in the folding spaces—
Promises of whispers,
Lips of butterflies—
Rains descend over the cities of the cliff’s side,
And we sell fireworks from the roadsides of
Mars where Christmas trees grow
As tall as roofs,
And the men you love float about like snowflakes
Stuck in mascara—
And the little children who fall down from them,
Scabbing their knees on presents of
Roller skates and bicycles
Think they see arrow heads and Indian nickels
In the open markets of the naked slopes—
Where one flower blooms at
A time and the sun holds his hand out
Trying to panhandle through the offerings of his day.