in a million
that sometimes, you just long to say
and do nothing,
to let those last gold glowing
tokens fall
with their familiar little rings—until, at last
you have
absolutely none
of everything. Then you'd feel
clean, you'd feel
in control,
feel free,
since
the fortunes
you would care about now
could only be as small as
your thoughts made them out to be.
But still
always, there's the gleam
of subconscious
knowing underneath—wordless
and silent,
impoverished
and unspoken—such close pairs as these
mean far
from the
same thing.
