No Beauty That Is Actually Her Own Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The soon seems to be playing with the night and the stewardesses
Wherever they are cannot get any sleep—
There they are impossibly up in the angles of the clouds
And I do not know what else to say to them—
But when the time is right, I suppose that they will fly down
And plant their kisses upon my mouth,
Giving me whatever they have to give me at any angle—
And then the moon will steal the light again
From the sun and bask herself with it—unusually happy that
Only five or so men have come to know that there is nothing
Truly about her
And no beauty that is actually her own.