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.