The Poetry Kit
is spilling gold through black leaves,
gilding the threads of spider webs,
skimming the bird-bath waters
like a stone of air,
shimmers of bright metal,
comes marching like Carnival
through red September lilies,
switching them on like lamps:
they burn, their faces all on fire.
I try to scoop this hot gold in my hands,
splash it on my face and neck;
I would become pure ember,
glow like the golden treasure left in tombs.
Too late; the sun has shed its cargo,
and sunk below the trees;
sing now from a deeper dark.