For silver I crave clouds
embossed by a partial eclipse—
the moon’s too pale.
For gold I favor backlit moss
after a week of rain—
the sun’s too brilliant.
For stones I savor the glittery floss
of almost-speech:
the midnight oriole’s half-a-phrase,
fire sirens above the storm,
the avid teeth of another’s wife,
the eyes of a fettered hawk.
I stake each claim with fervor
in the name of the crown, the earlobe,
the male or female eyebrow.
Nostril navel wrist & ankle
ringfinger neck & nipple:
each has its own gravity.
I’ve found no single point on which
all else must turn.