If You Think You Choose, Choose How That Sun Comes Up

A braid of bronze,
A braid of gold,
The third thread rose—
Watch how this goes.

Those cupped skies hold
All the world’s shows—
Each braid of bronze,
Each brace of swans,

The whole world scrolled
Up in slow dawns,
Old tints you know—
One thread of rose,

One braid of bronze.
The wind’s so cold.
Watch how this goes.
The last blaze gold.