From The Nocturnal Prisons Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Lost marbles in the playroom that opens
At one end to a field without end, and to the canal
That doesn’t exist,
Evaporated ribbon, like promises
Of girls lost with the yellow-jackets caressing the
Tiny nipples of the kumquat tree
Filled with the wayward paper airplanes.
Underneath their tinfoil daises,
The wax lions sweat—trinkets of the zoo
Left over our shoulders—fieldtrips to roller rinks
And movie theatres,
While over there each wave a thrust—
A new reason—an animalistic breath as a stark
Contract against the fragmented delusions of
The séances of the amusement parks:
And holding your hand in one of these places,
And fall off the pace,
Lying with you in the abandonments we both hope
For,
Calling to you hopefully from the nocturnal prisons
As jasmine blooms from the soul
You could not fill.