From The Old Mailboxes Poem by Robert Rorabeck

This is the curse of the brotherhood that wished that it
Had existed a lot more in what could have been the soft brown
Baseball games in the immeasurable depths of your deep
Brown eyes,
Like coffee that wasn’t stirring from its sleep:
Like your arms enfolded around a newborn that made up its
Own sorts of spells,
While the terrapins wandered, and the boats flew:
And the gods who were still alive spoke to themselves, until
The oceans that we circulated around were really cut up
And emoted the silver destinations of your Christmases:
Alma, or whatever else it was that you really wished to
Decide for;
And you children learned the language that your mother Rosa
Cooked for them, as I died for you every night, under the arms of
The special curses,
As your occultish young body swung around like the heady metals
Of an undecided compass on a journey in a fireside by which
It wasn’t made up in any way to know how to prove, or heroically,
Disprove;
Until the pinwheels of my family’s name finally regained their
Colors, and flew off your lips
Like mockingbirds from the old mailboxes somewheres in a neighborlessly
Honored sea.