To Set You Free Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Days building up their games in quiet rooms
On the tired green carpet where I’ve had at myself,
Almost leaving trails like slime,
My overbite the little indentation of the beak of
A terrapin,
I move like an obese winner in a trance;
And the pine trees peer inside, paper snowflakes
Stuffed like trucks of pillows into their armpits,
Time capsules in their roots soldiered by ants,
All the spent bottle rockets hanging around the yard
Like gaunt young cenotaphs;
And the world knows what I mean;
It just absolutely fizzles with lights,
Even with their own pin-shell identities that cannot
Be identified by the queens tongue;
They are like the fibrillations of oral sex the swans wings
Give to the yard,
Carelessly and most pleasurable like crisp fruit
Moments before enjoyment;
Then it is there in your hand, firmness and color and ecstasy;
The very first senses of it already inhaled like unicorns
Or seahorses;
Something a mean stepmother would insist couldn’t be real,
But there it is almost ready to set you free.