The Sunbank (The Poet, to win back his Love, boasts of his Wealth.)

by Aidan Andrew Dun

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That dazzling sun
in a wide-open sky:
the banking-house where
my gold is sealed.

At dawn magnifying
daystar with psalms
I draw from heart’s
brilliant vaults;

Noonward disappear
into woods and dells
dappled forestland
withdrawn and sad.

What I love is water’s
silver sparkling gold
a bright-eyed bird
in the dark glade.

At sunset, when
the solar bank closes
I place something
in my eternal account

Solid work done
under the interior sky
stored away from
illiterate darkness.

Good poems are drafts
pay-to-the-bearer
cheques made out for
billions, trillions.

I pass a bad one
from time-to-time:
anti-civilian reflex.
It doesn’t matter.

No thief has ever
robbed or defrauded
that treasure-house:
masterplans go wrong.

A run on my sunbank
will never happen.
Reserves are infinite
non-fractional.

Behind gold doors
closed by fiery swords
beautiful fountain-pens
line counters, unchained.

Take one, engrave
your signature in light
illuminate the world
with your name.

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