In The Graveyard At The Top Of The Hill Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Call me over to where the sun is weeping
Lost in the woods but not far from
Where your mother does her laundry:
She dreams she is in love with another man
But she will never leave her husband—
The houses where she has left her heart
Seem to evaporate
And the sea sings a song that cannot be sung:
It is so beautiful,
As the Mexicans dreams of Mexico in the flea
Market underneath the overpasses:
And I open all of the wounds I have for you—
The faithful pledges disembarking through the
Wounds of our incinerated cathedral:
Where the boys and girls once kept their
Thoughts of love until they were carried
Away to sleep with the angels in the graveyard
At the top of the hill.