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