Weeping All The Way Down Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Bodies become impaired at sunset, Sharon,
Or they fall in love, as you spend all day long in
A cradle of yellow abyss:
Rams drink the ribbons that curl down through the crust
Like cracks in porcelain dolls,
And when I think about you, I wonder if either of your
Grandmothers are still living,
And how near they are to you; and yet I know that you
Still must be a girl
Who loves her car, but who would also love flowers
Once in awhile: flowers, flowers I can give to you and
Songs,
But I am mute of camaraderie, only because I am strange,
And I do my best romances from the celibacy of light
Towers where I always keep out for you
And smell you as the orange groves are awakened,
You taking your daughter through the rain marching up the
Hill with the other tourists, and yet apart:
And I drink to you alone tonight, Sharon, even if it is because
You are the only girl it is safe to drink to;
And I hope that is enough: and I think of your grandmother;
And the pets you have lost, and the places you used to live
I can only imagine, or the things that are even more precious
To you while you attend to your shop
And I try to capture you there in the still-life of a make-believe
Church while the mountains are weeping all the way down
To the coffins, but at least they are taking their time about it.