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7:00 P.M.


It is time

to harvest the light

rinsing houses, beaches and boats

with fool’s gold,

to intercept

the red stare of windows

fastened upon

the slipping

face of the sun.

It’s the hour

for the last tricks

of a burning alchemist -

shells made of glass,

sandcastles of bronze,

this glistening spell

as our part of the earth

turns away. Owning little

in which to collect fire

we use what we have -

the marrow of bone,

the window of eye,

an expandable heart.

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