I have a dream
to fill the golden sheath
of a remembered day..
(Air
heavy and massed and blue
as the vapor of opium..
domes
fired in sulphurous mist..
sea
quiescent as a gray seal..
and the emerging sun
spurting up gold
over Sydney, smoke-pale, rising out of the bay..)
But the day is an up-turned cup
and its sun a junk of red iron
guttering in sluggish-green water--
where shall I pour my dream?