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Vaulted spikes in the city - square coats and block shapes;
In the morning the cafe fills with cubes,
We gather like broken glass to watch the tele.
Everything alters: a shape on the page
And the page turns; a new year; a new tome
Of history, and common sense bursts through the wall.

Loneliness is watching the glasses turn and be put away
And glitter in the gold light, and the dance
Of shapes behind the bar, the lean bartenders, the shake
Of silver fire; the mistakes we make, the golden slug
Of error; the frames of our redemption, stained wood.
I promised I would work and not think; I promised I'd be strong
In metaphor, not selfhood, and beyond.
Now it starts: the glow of future fires; and the wall
Throbs with a shallow hum underlain by hurt
And endurance. Trails of smoke in a glass.
Someday the door will burst open and reveal us.
A fierce shine will burn away the veils.
And all of us in comedy and greatness will emerge
Burned thin as wheat and as golden, sheaves
Of terrible innocence. We will be hidden enough to see.

Here is the number on the door: Open to me!
For I am thin as wheat and as golden,
Broken and burned away to my core.
Through me the world shines in, and the grey
Pavement sports a shine, and trails forth forever.
Come with me! For I will blow you a road
Out of grain, and as golden, flourishing
And fertile, with a thousand sights to either side;
A tourist's road, but only you will trail the guide.
I am yours only, and all will belong at once to you.
Nefertiti in the desert? Touch her face,
She is severe and hard as a queen should be.
Pride is in my face, can you not see?
And all of dignity, and the far plains.