The Dirt Of A World That Can Never Be Healed Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If I am just something forever used to keep busy
Your yawning afternoons:
Sending me up into the compost heaps over the ever
Infatuated room,
But no longer feed my body with your body’s bloom:
If these are the barbs that you sing,
While you swings your children across the milky tips
Of the gleaming chasms;
This I cannot heal, because it is very real:
The poisoned slits and crevices that the dragons burn
And thus they feel:
I want to be your gut-shot soldier telling stories to himself
Up on cemetery hill:
This is all that matters while the balloons surcease like
Bladders,
While the lost boys enjoy what cannot be real:
And their island is a star- it is a pinprick in your car,
While the waves wave away the dirt of a world that can never
Be healed.