The furniture floats
on a pool of it;
shoes click across
the gleaming floor.

The edge of the table leg
is radiant. On the back
of the hand, kinder
than breath, wasted,
there is so much of it,

abundance in the bales
of bean straw shiny
with morning and

the pour of detail —
fence posts and the puddles
of road-ruts, laundry
white and yellow in the only world.