Poverty

You call to me as if I were in some other bed
    or gone gold digging with the sun. In fact
I was dreaming I had ten minutes to haul a fortune
    in jewels and coins from the cache of a secret mountain.
An underground river bolted under my boat,
    spilled the loot and rushed me back here penniless.
All I could bring home you’re holding now
    in your hands, the rippling wings of my proud rising.

Tired of small secrets, little gifts,
I conjure this secret mountain between us.
Behold the range of my discretion, even in dreams
    when you challenge me from every wind of the compass!
You call to me as from a tall house gratefully burning
    while fortunes panic around us, fall like stars.