David Day
Brass Rubbing (XXIV)
I stop beside the font where there are pools
of glowing purple daisies. It seems diffusion
from the yellow sun outside is here. A bee
is tumbling in the blooms. This harvest show
could simply be too much
since fruits involve desire,
the need to weigh, describe their valency.
Out of the corner of my eye
I catch a rebus, just an ear
of grain inset oddly by a lady’s head.
Her cap is called a butterfly.
Her gown is décolleté, fur outlines
an ample breast, although her upraised open hands
are only further details on a little brass.
A massive marrow by her thigh has tiny marks
that show a mouse appreciates
this equinoctial feast. His teeth are accurate
in the display. The sun and moon
could be the minute forces in the space
I clear to rub the brass.
Page(s) 26-27
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