The Metals

James Applewhite

Bronzes, gray-silver lozenges,
 planes, masses, undeniable
as inertia. Molecules' strivings
  fanatic with strength.
Of an idolatrous worship,
  the sect of projectiles
and knives. Envisioned
  instrusions into flesh.
Hardware's hurt dream:
  power, rank, rigidity
and regalia. Severers
  of tissues. Cold sutures
for irreparable nerve.

Slag of nuclear burnings.
  Vulcan's hammered-on rod:
lead a sullen heaviness,
  iron the soul of a sword,
copper servant to cities,
  gold an idol of thought,
but soft, a booty, hostage to daggers.

Metals: gravity's incandescence
  hardened against
weeping. Cooled, stoic rock
  obedient to ballistic
arc, loyal to a fuse. Molten
  ire, ore cast in a fit
of rage into graves of molds. Stars
  are souls, said philosophers.
Your origin is their furnaces.