Lantern Slides
Time was Money
stopped with us upwards
of a month
once every year lording it large
burning hard both ends.
A daylight hoot by night
the fridge shuddered supplements rustled
and there Money always
already was all palaver all
sugary waffle.
What memory prospers
in grain it spends in pixels.
You still happen on receipts secreted
about the place like flutter
slips or eggs
at Easter.
Cuckoospit, chlorophyll?
Sure thing… Spring
spells mostly those gorgeous residual
jitters born of assessment
of a self that used be
pretty fiscal. This
is of the carpet
bag Money never returned for,
a parallelogram of vivid dust through the screen door.
This is
of an heirloom bound in cloth Atlantic Calm.
This is of
a note unopened between shakers on the table that
(till now)
remained implicit. Don’t even
dream about it.