Golden Hours

[tun]

Golden Hours
                      for A. B.

World cruel as the fairies,
unlisted in books of numbers
in libraries full of tables.

Empty as a heart
opened with unconditional 
difference, nothing
inside when closed.

They defy mirrors:
not as vamps who look real
good in every weather.
The immune particular,

garden-variety gnomes
who walk like smiling royal guards
defy without denying the autumnal lens.

Caught unlabored in corners out of focus,
uncaptured nevertheless,
in baskets brought by princes and servants.

Look you have influenced me;



A sprig of yellow
in the buttercup of fate
the doorways are closed and open
the destiny of hate
or love
heaven’s above
if you could have a road made of felt
if you knew what it was
if it is somewhat or someless
it all depends
wheatgrains of Spelt
the nose is the organ olfactory
her tongue was pink and bright
until it was dull
roads go somewhere
nice or not
the chemical factory
electrician’s utility belt.


Look when are you going to do one where I have influenced you?