In California, winters are pleated
In the afternoon a gilded light tilts
Suns in the bellies of spoons
Tricorne leaves adhere then lift against opacity
A grass-gold corona, gold behind and through
In a sitting room in California cold light pushes the golden.
A painted ceiling works like a painted tree
Leafing and stoked with gold
In bleakness post-carded with citrus
Melted light running in long channels under floorboards & globed greens.
Goldness that could fill a lung.
California in particles sifted out of pans and blown
Into stiff blue air, sharp with golden barbs
In an eye full of blinking shards
Thrust into a photograph, gold and gray on a yellow wall
In a room nearly full of objects
In the shape of afternoons
Amber light as soft as money is