All That Glitters
     

       The chair is blonde,
       the floor, dogs too.
       The woman who moves
       between me and these sheets,
       by morning will glisten,
       her curls spun gold
       from the straw in this room.
 
       All is blonde, all is sun,
       all is fine afternoons
       and fine beyond mention,
       fine beyond gloom.
       I am hung in the ray 
       of each long afternoon,
       caste by my shadow 
       down the drive, 
       down the street,
       away far away,
       to the dark of the east;

       to tunnels, to bridges,
       below and above the 
       grey city streets,
       to dark weary women
       whose faces I see
       framed in the windows
       of dovetailing trains.

       Their slow bodies glimmer.
       They have gold
       on their fingers, 
       gold on their wrists,
       gold on their necks, 
       and smuggled as well 
       between bare jouncing breasts;
       and look down the car,
       that one there,
       she's smiling at me,
       rivers of light  
       from her gold capped teeth.

       As I call in the dogs,
       and look down the street,
       such is the currency 
       that bargains with me.



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