A goldsmith hammered a sunflower
out of recycled trinkets. It howled
because it was tasteless, because it was
brassy. It could not turn to the sun
like other heliotropes. So the sun
had pity on the yard ornament
& melted it down with ardor.
And the goldsmith soaked his hands
in the liquefaction, & they hardened.
In this condition, he discovered
a finch laying an egg in a trash can.
He could handle neither the bird
nor the egg with his welded fingers.
But the yolk beneath the blue enamel
of the sky made him happy. It cast
his silhouette on the sidewalk while bees
trampled it with mellifluous feet.