In The Tombs Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Dollar for dollar at the spotless cathedral for
Unicorns- becoming disbanded through the intractable
Union of my thoughts- her hands of green
Scars like paper sailboats across the grass- and in our
Horizon, her tombs
Laid like easily defined lamp posts down the streets:
Or in the many meat markets of
The middling of our days: how many bright boys
As bright as we forget to clean themselves and thus
Fell anonymously fighting for to be the captains of her
Days- and the good English diction eat out of
Their filibustered tongues: eat out in action
Underneath the tombs of the wild and philanthropic
Hibiscus as if eaten out from underneath the sun:
As, if they could, their skeletons would all be dancing:
Dancing in the tombs pulled out from under the rug.