Spun Orb of Stars

Past hints at nights of its own
And is the night full of pasts.

Each face that shines is a clue,
Here or there, to what was lost.

Gone is gone. The stars you see,
The face you read when you watch,

These are here, are parts of you,
As long as you. What you have

Is a clue to what has gone,
And clues are what you go on.

You know those old poems, not like
Bright new poems that sound great depths?

The old poems that seem to care
For trite things don’t speak to us?

Those poems spun the dark of night,
The black dust that shapes the lights.