GRAVE MELODY

I have found Sabina Melody among the graves,
beloved of Matthew, resting in this earth since 1891,
awaiting the Day of Rapture.
I have found the deformed faces of saints, marble fingers acid-eaten and up thrust, pointing the way.
I have found dirty white plastic doves, joined
at the wing, littering the walkway.
I have found an old man sitting on the bumper
of a black Cadillac, sipping vodka from a NyQuil cup.
Doubtless, he has his own way of remembering.