Long ago I gave up working for lord gold.
Creeping age returns a mean regard for gold.
This distribution of the sun to those in want
I will compare to semen sooner than to gold.
Monet colors the path near the end of his garden
with yellows, browns, reds, indigos, but not with gold.
Bury me in a twist of cloth or wooden box.
Don’t burn my body for the fire will burn like gold.
Imagine my dismay, whenever I dream of you,
your image, to my shame, tempts with the call of gold.
My hands have learned to work in light and life and death.
Adorable, teach me to work also in gold.
The painting, finished, signed in the right corner, Jee,
gathers into the radiant godhead all the gold.