Wineglass

The wineglass, clouded halfway up
the bowl by use and cleaning
still gleams, a prism,
pale gold within
dusky gold without
golden bangles falling, falling round

day ebbs from the grey bowl of the sky
heaving with agitations of sound
the sirens, the shadowing roar
of jets above us like an airlift
that began in another history
but carries on, a broken silver stream

gold becomes mercury glistening as it rolls
into the dark under the cupboard

soft hands lift the glass
eyes turn to the flickering screen
that bring the world in

a concerned face mouths a question
in the background, a house slides into the sea
it is tiresome.
we sip.
hands resting on what remains
of a granitic batholith

idly contemplate how much
native rock was once displaced
by this plutonic intrusion
before, denatured, mirror-honed,
as far as can be from its violent birth
it came into our service

is there anything natural here?
will anything good surprise us now?

the shopping list lies on the counter
as if we would forget what we hunger for
write water, light.
underline light.

put down the memory of blue
sky tonsured by withdrawing clouds
and the blue, blue arching dome

put down the gritty miles of pale
sand exquisitely scalloped
by steady driving wind
lake waves piling up and over themselves
mad wings beating against the shore

put down sitting back to stone
facing the wind
toes arching down for warmth
under the dry slipping sand
to the dark damp that waits
for hand or rake to mold it
to a shape buried in some mind

between the blue and the sibilant rushing water
everything is satisfied
the mind’s eye a wide-winged gull
carried this way and that on boundless air