Gold

The eye the hand and the ageless
sense of age are all in love with gold.

Infinitesimal flowery gold
on my hand after the fact
softly as solid as glass
fluid as a shadow in the window
gold everywhere like veins
on my hand unchanging.

There is no exception to it
all back and forth banished
no branches broken or pollen
strewn to pregnant wind
no midnight bus back home
no trail of lost cash.

Gold stands unrelaxed
it neither sits nor dances
I see in gold rye and flax
once molten red and cast
into art beyond man
heavily and never alone.

The eye the hand and the ageless
sense of age are all in love with gold.

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About mrsorenson

all over the place
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