The Jeweler’s Song

For silver I crave clouds
embossed by a partial eclipse—
the moon’s too pale.

For gold I favor backlit moss
after a week of rain—
the sun’s too brilliant.

For stones I savor the glittery floss
of almost-speech:
the midnight oriole’s half-a-phrase,
fire sirens above the storm,
the avid teeth of another’s wife,
the eyes of a fettered hawk.

I stake each claim with fervor
in the name of the crown, the earlobe,
the male or female eyebrow.
Nostril navel wrist & ankle
ringfinger neck & nipple:
each has its own gravity.
I’ve found no single point on which
all else must turn.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s