Tuesday, October 24, 2023


Light, piercing yellow 
through the rowdy
kite-blue wind—

wind on which 
surfs the slightly 
succoring smell 

of fruits turning 
sour, and of leaves 

sensations which you 
see, hear, and breathe—

are more than 
a bit like the glut 
of spare change 

which clatters in your 
pocket as you 
saunter though the scene.

That is: 
they're not more 
than useless lumps 

which rattle their capacities
away in your brain; 
sooner or later, 

they must be 
extricated—passed around, 

for favors—
in order for them 
to matter.