Of These Shimmering Coves Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Open your eyes to the showers of birds—
Like spokes in a bicycle of sky
Pin wheeling above the call-girl waves:
And stop and sit beside me for awhile
As I sell fireworks to blind men underneath
A pale tent skinned from the moon
And made into the pornography here on the
Beach in the middle of the day—
Bask your tiny brown body in the ludeness of
My hands—and watch me color pictures
For you with my tongue,
Mollusks of roses to curl inside the seashells of
Your senses—gifts you never have to
Tell your husband, as the sun bows us with its
Light,
Bending the airplanes to make silver barrettes in
Your hair—and calling the dolphins to sing
Into the bedrooms of these shimmering coves.