Populus alba
All day I carry it round in my head,
a halo of precious and priceless,
regretting my mind is autumn, must
shed even these astonishments.
I want to slip it on my finger – there –
ductile, platinum, twenty-four carat,
where I can thread myself through its lightness,
and (flesh and bone) bear the weight of it.
From: Reading the Flowers, Arc, 2016.