Quicksilver men, they come and they go and
in the sunlight, the trees, and the green.
Always and always the quicksilver men,
with their faerie gold fingers
and laughter and light.
Quicksilver men, with their whimsy and crowing,
so shocking and strange and ephemeral and right.
And always again with the sweet tang of endings,
and gliding away with their sylph-painted lips.
To dance and not-dance,
to see and not-see,
to be held
forever and never and now,
quicksilver men live in worlds of perhaps,
yet the curl of their arm always feels like home.
Quicksilver men can never be bound,
and their taste is sweet,
though the price is dear.
Always running, the quicksilver men,
unfettered and brilliant and
gone with the sun.