Of Hidden Pleasure Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Lightly stuffed bodies interceding
Amidst the ethereal franchises of locksmiths;
Tiny trained bears slipping through the keyholes of
Featureless summits
Adventuring into that part of the world that is always
In crepuscule
Where dusty angels weep, secluded and hermaphroditic,
Curled like either end of a seahorse
Waiting for their time with you, a girl who stares like
The water-life of transoms: stares on for a good ways without
Knowing of or reaching destination,
At the manifestations of waves like boys and their fireworks;
And then partaking through the slim wall,
And through that anorexic hemisphere that keeps her warm,
Buzzing with the wax and honey of an apiary
Of hidden pleasure,
Which she might take on the go but otherwise doesn’t
Need to believe in at all.