Pleasure Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I like trying to smell your body.
You don’t know what joy I have just sitting beside you on
A rock:
I can barely even look at myself all day,
But I can look at you looking away over the yachts,
Flinging yourself over the sea:
I am sorry I am not good with words like the baseball games
Of your husband;
And if we first made love, I am sure I would tremulate like
A thrush stuck out in the cold trying to get warm
In your naked branches,
Like small children with numbed fingers trying to hide all
Of their valuables in the orchid-like hollow
Under the navel of your vineyard;
And I know if I see you again out in the super-fine
Resin, like another tourist out yarding with you in the
Clothing of yellow pinafores of this daylight, I might have
The hardest time communicating to you
Like the blindest man in the softest night; If you helped me along
I would eventually find your way and I am abundantly sure
That you would see me and it would pleasure me so to pleasure
You in a way I am sure you have never seen before.