Sundown on Palm Sunday

             The sun rode
             like a dude:
He rode the sky—gold capes thrown
             by clouds splayed
             across his way
pole to pole, high shine smeared by a giant—
             who roared:
             and out poured
more gold for God! (even more gaudy than God)
             galaxy-savvy,
             we were laughing
into the solar jazz—the cool cosmic touch,
             so much glitz,
             so much glitz 
the curled world couldn’t shut down
             the sundown—
             (no comedown
in gold arms hanging there, brassy as trumpets’
             slide-notes).
             Trees closed
in with their thousand thousand bare, clicking
             branches—
             tap dances,
and we all rocked and clapped and sang,
             Yo! Hosanna!
             Hosanna! Yo.