The Slave

Once as the sun was setting

A slave came to the gate

Day dying.

On its fiery tongue

An obol lay

Of copper spun.

Then did I dream?

Or were our houses

Lambent gold?

In Winter's pool

Did glory pass

And hold us speechless

In its spell?

Where he had fallen,

Used and cast aside,

All he had touched

Was trembling and alive –

each life is present

In this way:

Each fashioned thing

Speaks of its change.