Classic Poem

I have a dream
to fill the golden sheath
of a remembered day. . . .
(Air
heavy and massed and blue
as the vapor of opium . . .
domes
fired in sulphurous mist . . .
sea
quiescent as a gray seal . . .
and the emerging sun
spurting up gold
over Sydney, smoke-pale, rising out of the bay. . . .)
But the day is an up-turned cup
and its sun a junk of red iron
guttering in sluggish-green water —
Where shall I pour my dream?