Do you think I could rob
a bank of words?
Fill the cup of the Golden Nugget
Squash with sound?
Replenish its vanilla seeds
and orange strings
with the dance of a spoon
in your hand?
See the inside of the sun?
Give you a poem
from the yellow Chinese gold
of summer?
The sultry smell of night
as the plant smelted gold
from the day,
and poured it into its keep.
Not cold metal nuggets
from the bottom of the sea,
but the elusive wings of the sun,
the luster separated from
its hardness,
the heart’s scream
above mute sand.
Here,
on a cutting board,
its remains
made into a goblet
for the wavering inside us,
its spirit
turned into nourishment
and praise.