In Open Throated Vibrations Poem by Robert Rorabeck

By the gowned streets
Citied with people
Walking in trails of phosphor
About in the slag of the metallic quarry,
The weary maiden lays down to rest
Red-capped and lost in
A two lane path through the
Petrified forest. She bites an innocent apple
Thoughtfully from her wicker lunch basket.
Chubby and boisterous tourists stop
And take pictures of the elegant juice beading down
The indented pink basin of her plump lip,
A child of clitoral dew dreaming of a waterfall.
She smells like hot cinnamon taking a shower.
When her eyes look up into the flashing bulbs,
They can not understand what is happening
Though the irises swell with curiosity.
The domineering conductor takes his troop
Away, trundling down the marble foliage
To the cottage of three narcoleptic grizzlies.
Left alone, exhausted like a long distance
Runner naked in the middle of Africa,
She begins to hallucinate. There beneath the marble
Roof planted in cement sheaths thickets of orchids
Are humming, in opened throat vibrations.
Some are white and some are blue
And some are changing colors rapidly.
She steps off the path, not hearing the tourists
Scream far away, not seeing the beast’s
Long-tailed shadow stalking like a debased gentleman
Obscuring her shadow