Golden tones have befallen
the tiny space in which I lay:
two warmths fill me--
from Inside, and Out.
The first are images of a gilt God
beside me in every conceivable way:
a companion-- a man-- filling my ears with a trickle of secrets
(cool, like the water that goes dripping
from hardened rock-face-- glacier-carved
in Agony, in Ache--
to mirror-waters:
still, immovable, deep)
which burn as they're ejected, yet become cool again
as their heat disperses into open air.
If fire and water cannot mix, then maybe
(at least)
I can deal with the heat of magma turning constantly.
Are you me? Am I him?
Silver tears will erode the Earth; Salt will keep it barren.
The second warmth
(as I sense the magma beneath the surface):
the languid haze of two maidens, as I lounge in the sun's ray.
