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.

​