What is not even shiny or
rare, we pour
ourselves into the cast
together, hold whatever time there is
with each other, or
sometimes just hold each other—
I still don’t understand tin mixing
copper and lead, ellipses,
a pi value, a kind of whole-
ness. Metal of the dailiness, undecorated,
the glorious-not-this, but pliable, durable,
not pure, not sacred, but
constant like gulls can lift
an ocean in their wings, or fire
burns under a Siberian perma-
frost all year long—
Shape, form, then melt down and
make new, imperfect silver suns, blue
moons to light the foggy fields—