Gold

We have one Olympic pool of it. 
                                                         The hosts
of banks and rings and circuits of the world
get by on those few golden atoms, ghosts
of stars, the giants made early out of pearled

and clotted gas. Big stars grow fast,
then they collapse and seal on vaulted tons,
not even time leaks out, just scraps of blast
escape, reform, recycle in new suns.

See the blown shell in the telescope:
it crawls through space, a glowing, writhing caul
of veiny stuff, bright strands we hope
will blow our way again - if this blue ball

lasts out. Who thinks it can be bought or sold?
We borrow or it borrows us, such gold.