Summer Cutting of Molten Gold

The night opens like a pair of scissors,
the day bends down toward her lap
and the sun goes in through deep caves
behind the red glints, into the rocks.

Lifted skirts
of the low mists in the hollow.
The rocks are drenched in gold.
My jacket, open at the chest, shivers
and the wind rocks me.

Sandy, the days slide down into her
and their run-out time
sighs and expires with languor
and molten summer sticks
in the wheels.

Down my head,
the spilt dew of the night
trickles in rivulets down the chest of my jacket,
and down the clinging dust of summer
(That is how mud and people are made.)

It is good at home (I remember),
but the home itself — I don’t remember.
Every time I wish,
I can go back
into this memory

and the autumn clinging to my legs may
remind me of it

The day slides down
along the lap of the opened night
and her scissors draw back
gently…