On Michaelmas, the day the gold drains  

into the lake, the equinoctial sun tilts,

sinks to the bottom, stays there for months,

 

the day the rents came due for the quarter,  

when they baked the bannock  

and roasted the stubble goose,

 

the day beyond which the blackberries

must not be eaten, since Satan

once fell and cursed the brambles,

 

the day with the same name as the daisies  

I will soon pull up by the roots  

because their color displeases me:

 

on that same day, when the archangel,  

warrior and tutelar, flourishes, trampling,  

if only briefly, a fallen Lucifer, a glory round his head,

 

I see the dark-lashed, dark-browed boy,  

unsmiling, drive past him as he looks up,  

hooded, unkempt, skateboard under his arm.  

​

He emerges under the bridge.  

Today the day lasts just as long as the night,  

a balance listing to dark till the dark has had its say.  

 

The daisies I planted, thinking they were asters,  

are a thicket, of no use to me, though they grow tall,  

flower when there are few other flowers,  

 

their petals forming a pale, feathery corona  

round a golden eye.  Brush my hip as I take the step.

Back at the underpass, I correct myself:

 

surely he must have a home.  I exit

the highway, pass under cars speeding  

and fuming their smoke above.  

 

My heart is a weight.  The flowers arch  

like a Roman bridge over the walk.

The boy’s hair’s a blond halation. He pauses,  

 

sees only movement, just a parting  

where he might take the road.  

Genius who does not meet my eye,  

 

whose gaze rakes over ripple and heat,  

whose titular flower I’ve let flower,  

your silks unfurl before me in a brief flame

​

but I regret them, I’ll unroot them,  

tear them out before snowfall—  

 

you, whose hymn  

is unvenerated, whose home is shadow. 

​

​