In A Wound Of A Pyramid Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Beauty in a wound of a pyramid—standing over
Mummies and the clefts of the sommeliers—
It is all you need to touch yourself and to find yourself
Out, while
The night echoes like a bouquet the bats as
To the vampires—
And these are only words—these are only
Sacrifices of chum to the indoor swimming pools,
Trying to wait up all night for
Santa Clause after nothing else has survived,
Trying to figure out the echo of
The divine,
Repeatedly—
Throughout all of the choruses of the hummingbirds
As through the lactating apiaries of the lusciously divine.