From a crow’s eye,
as the crow flies,
something like gold.
From the height of a child—
or a girl-sized child—
or a child-sized girl (for who are you to say?
You have not met her until this moment, have not
seen her bare, white feet as she picks along the railroad tracks
down by the river
down by the river,
I shot my baby
her arms bare and bluing and white
eyes blue and whitening at times
as she turns them to the sky
draining them of color, so she can see more)—
This is not gold.
This is not silver.
These are not diamonds strewn by careless birds
by crows with an eye for something rich
and shining harder and more hardly
than all the waters of this place.
This is the garbage, the tinfoil
wire glinting sharply in
the mulch, the muck
the garbage that feeds this blackened soil
that cuts white feet,
But this girl is lucky.
Looking out for rain, for certain clouds
for gatherings of flies,
she has no eyes for gold.
They have been drained both of color
and of avarice.
on this black earth
looking for the shine of water
the darkest jewels
the black earth