And there was gold between the fingers of the trees

And there was gold between the fingers of the trees

A filthy fifty-hound howling thought

Breaks temple dam

heats the mind hungry

Man cold

eating in his man-eating hole

This day’s dragon

that day’s clothes

Discs spinning discs spinning cylinders

into gravel greased daily guard removed

The pinions the flight feathers

The feathers of sweet flight

Many little light emitting diodes

and very little light

The mind mongrels into messages

and sad fires turn angel grey

Walk their way to majesty

Colour is nothing, is visual friction

burning my eyes out

then midnight, the heavy candle

Ghosts are not white sheets

that haunt old buildings

but an atmosphere between people

Scent of corn, wrangling

with downy yellow violets

The air was warm, sanguine

imperial silence

And there was gold between the fingers of the trees