gold-bodied a beetle dives
into muck and dirt, a silica
 
of glitter on his porch,
his wing.
 
there is no evidence of his home now
it is vanished,
 
small soil tabernacle
he carried in the sun.

2

 
this is the point where colour comes in,
 
a slap of blue/ the wooden baker’s palette
hits glittering concrete
 
city of silica, its bedrock trembles a bit
 
glossy/ the blackbird’s sunbath/his beak
goldened almost/ yellow.
 
From The Silences is © C. Murray