Noon

Noon, crash down white
over spouting trees.
Rope them in glow
as they sputter
with beards of twig.
As their scab knuckles
rake the sky
with a beggar's sleight
of hand — you burn them!
Let's see them go
as golden biers,
surging downstream
past the marble houses
to crash into town
and overturn a car,
impale the bank
and drink the money
up in the fire.
Swallow the bag lady
in an instant of black,
crush cindering up
to the rivers brink
and topple in.
Noon still falls
in silver shafts.
One hits Canary Wharf,
and its metal organs
shine like babies
in the gasping air,
then dropping, smelt.