2 June 2003 | Vol. 3, No. 2


Through gold, a comb shimmers. Not the red

cock-comb of sureness, but here, a hen-comb,

a toothed darling.

Through gold, through the white gold,

thoughts sputter, move as they do

into the hot engine beneath,

muscles elaborate as pistons.

Under the roll of trained wheat, under the glaze