By The Hungry Day Poem by Robert Rorabeck

There are maggots in the stars, and underneath those
Filthy heavens I have been jogging again:
And the sea lights out like an infinite drawer of unruly knives;
And they seem to be trying to kiss the brows of the
Sleepless sheep that I’ve
Been counting,
As the airplanes are falling down the stairs, and forgotten relatives
Are never coming up again for air:
This infinite regress, and the birth of crypt-orchid hair:
It blooms in the night-time caverns underground
Where we find that so many of our friends are sleeping,
Gloriously:
In their trailer parks they sleep and play their tin horns and their
Forgotten eyes reflect up to our souls the great distance into
Which they have been away,
And they continue their dour reflections until the sun is eaten
By the hungry day.