The Beauty Of Her Angles Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Spoiling in their ways like a cornucopia of weeds
Through the bloody roots like the pubis underneath the silvertips
That spark sending a codex to the airplanes that tip
Their wings to reciprocate; and they have it all going off:
The stewardesses are flying their brooms low
Over the festivities of the seasons: and the reintroduced wolves
Are all hypnotized, so the foals are safe:
And the farmers come out and shake the lucky feet of rabbits under
The spendthrift moon, as I leap atop the wall of my lover’s father and look
In at her cable television and boudoir in the same even
Palaces who each have estuaries like vermilion jewels where the housewives
Are swimming, and their children come home to after school:
And I linger there like a delicate knight, sucking my thumb into
Dawn: when she rises, my love, and drapes things across the beauty of
Her angles that I swear she should never have put on.