The Slave

Once as the sun was setting
A slave came to the gate
Day dying.
On its fiery tongue
An obol lay
Of copper spun.

Then did I dream?
Or were our houses
Lambent gold?
In Winter's pool
Did glory pass
And hold us speechless
In its spell?

Where he had fallen,
Used and cast aside,
All he had touched
Was trembling and alive –

each life is present
In this way:
Each fashioned thing
Speaks of its change.