The Dirt Of The Stars Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Which way do the languishing shadows hang,
Uphill or downhill from the graveyard:
Either way doesn't seem right—
But the waves of the sea are awake either at
Midnight or noon,
But the night blooming jasmine only blooms
With the turning of the earth away from
The sun, like a scorned lover who doesn't
Deserve the way she's been done—
And it doesn't matter to me anyways, the tales
That get around,
What they consider to be beautiful or
Ugly—anyways,
The sunlight always touches the toes of
The ground—
And the graveyards are just as wide as the heavens—
And nothing I have done as been really beautiful
Enough to escape the earth—
Even though I still think I can hear you echoing over
The dirt of the stars.