Out by the river, picking over driftwood
bleached like bone. Or digging in the earth
for a succulent root,
when the light
once forged in an ancient star
is found. Nugget of fire from a neutron
bomb so bright
that the sky still burns.
Now rolled in a palm. Set beside a mammoth
tusk carved and worn as a pagan charm,
the pendant
gleams. Gold
in the heat of a dying
flame, how the eyes of a hunter will circle
at dusk, hacking at meat
and honing blade,
waiting on sleep. When the lump of sun
will glow. Yellow
in the hollow
of a naked throat.
