The gold light’s created in the east trees,
abrupt against trunks, lovely in the limbs
looming like X-ray bones. In these rooms
new light makes everything antique—the brass
bed, oak dresser, last night’s whisky—suffuses
the rediscovered world like gilt combs
combing gold hair, winnowing from my dreams
streaks of sheer light whose falling mess of rays
eliminates the need for clothes. White light
at day’s height batters us from far above
the trees, wanting nothing to do with skin’s
effusions or healthy glow, but like night
indifferent to the colors of my love,
the gold light that dances around her bones.