First, the burning sandalwood

First, the burning sandalwood
Rising past my leaded glass.
Then, the light. A candle would
Have lit my hands as bright as that

Sun, sinking low, under homes
Blinking on, til the dawn
Pokes its holes in the dark
That would have been there
otherwise.

                   I realized:

I was asleep. I often am.
But in that tick of second hand
I came awake. I heard a song.
A stir, a shift—the sun is gone.

                   Was I asleep?
                   I often am.

Then, Saturn's run: several suns
Streaked the night (I assume—I was dumb
Might as well have been the
Southern skies).

                    Now I arise

And later, on a bench, the Bay
Sweatered in its lazy haze
Settles in this mountain mold
That crowns our city, gated, gold

Sun stretches high, tracing each line,
Rendering finely as a little brush on a canvas
Roughly what's real
In my eyes.