Untitled the eighth.

Four o’clock hits
and the world turns golden.

The sun has traveled far enough
that we can talk as friends,
instead of shouting through blue distance,
and words turn golden.

Every barren tree.
Every dead-grass field.
Every ill-paved,
or well-paved,
still paved,
road –

Air becomes heady,
drunk with light,
yet clear to breathe –
because it’s golden.

And birds sail,
drink in the veiled air,
send messengers to run,
tell Creation that it’s come –
to taste, delight rejoice,
this gift is golden.

I in my car, clutch the wheel,
clutch my heart,
let music torrent flood,
wash deep down,
bring up dust, life, and blood,
listen to you call it golden.

Hazy light,
flooded air,
you jar,
and you tear,
send messengers to run,
tell my soul that it’s come,
to taste, delight, rejoice,
this gift is golden.