There is a silver that glides
Across the heads of bushes
And hides beneath each leaf.

The silver which dances in
The belly of the wave,
Illuminates the bald skulls of the wise.

Each shade greater than the other.

The metallic that burns,
Imprints the eye, crawls out
From the night’s moon and sits
In the light of the sun

This silver is known by all.
The tar-heated horizon to
The metal muzzle which pokes
Through the turret

It drags across Swiss slopes,
Fits perfectly through evening windows.
There is a small silver on the handle
Of the mirror I hold;

I look into it, I say

Show me your symbols!
Caress these; they are my mysteries
My unsure realities
You tinged sword
You pitchforked colour