The Game Of Her Spell Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Placing a book in the window and leaving her there—
She will not look out upon anything without your eyes
To show her some kind of resort:
And you can display the fireworks to her: Chinese lanterns
That spring from the armpits of the cypress that
Border your house from the neighbors,
Or five-hundred blue roman candles that go off in
The middle of the day when it gets dark enough because
Of the crows:
And she will not think for one moment of the amusements
Of this love: laid down anywhere she cannot exist,
For she needs your eyes upon her,
To feel her bosom rise in the symmetry of her papery
Swell—
But any other man will do just the same—semiliterate—
Placed in the castle of his senses, her perfumes will fill
The pages of her boudoir,
And she will come alive underneath him,
And make a nest of his hands—and she will not look away
From him until he is done with her
For that is the game of her spell.