The Cup of Trembling Saramanda Swigart

The sunset is made of gold. It is                                                                                                                                              made of gold, the sunset, this sunset.                                                                                                                                made of gold—-pure gold spills down the mountainside                                                                                                     and I kneel before the mountainside’s golden 
     spread

Kneel on the stone and burn this image into my forsaken
brain, sear gold onto my retinas, behind its sackcloth
consciousness (made of gold it is made 
of pure gold--this sunset--made of made of made of the
quintessent 
     stuff)

This gold is flaked from god's massive loneliness, our lord
of deep aching things--
who makes abysses and ruins, a 
cosmos crowded
with empty and ravenous math, with savage laws to bind it; 
this god's mind stokes gravity, black holes, cataclysms, does 
not rest for a moment
     on me

This god built a Martian peak in our orrery without a single
climber; gave titan oceans of gasoline, methane rain, and 
no machines to mine,
and one orb that seethes, greedy with life, spending itself in 
the terror of the spheres and it and I will die without 
consent, or comment, or comfort, but today the sky lusters
     so I own

a sunset made of gold, of gold, of gold, of perfect gold. It is
made of gold, the sunset, this sunset. Never never
forget this sunset of gold, the way it pours like yolk over the
mountain scree, made for me to drink--drink until it turns, 
like all things, into
     what is no more

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