COIN OF THE REALM
How valuable to tremble，
in your presence，
a shudder of vowels，
praising the white shoulders of sleep.
Light swallows sleep and roosters.
I listen for your mysterious breath，
tunneling lonely towards morning，
dreaming of columbines，
guitarrons， and citronella.
In night s tender moss，
the smell of roses is an arrow on fire.
We take aim and find first light like cool milk.
Drink to a day of stringed instruments.
We take the open road. Count off twenty centuries.
I am afraid of nothing， but with my body of skin and music
awake.
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