{Title Forthcoming}
I found one hundred pounds but gave it all away.
The money is hyperbole: I lied to
Keep a copper pence coin worth half
A slice of bread borrowed from a roommate.
I’m not behind the lines drawn in the kitchen
Yours & Mine
One hundred pounds won’t be spent on flour.
We left our silhouettes in alleyways.
Ate our way through creameries
Melting sticky fingers remember cotton-paper
currency can be dry with possibility; might be
everything might be anything at all
where we’ve wandered the poverty
trading bread and ice cream
Fullness & Sweetness
Bread: lines in a sandwich are walls around a mouth
Sugar cream makes mockeries of these geometric boundaries
Maps mark the lines to and from, not yours and mine
Dug up one hundred pounds to hide away
The money was knowledge, but you try telling
Readers collecting memories in dog ear’d novels
As the story grows in throes, the body rows
Some passages whispered, others on a podium
Most wooden men are soapboxes shouting
From street corners in idiums about
Lost currency on concrete. Beauty
Marks our misfortunate faces. How Beautiful
A morning with a pocket’s painted possibilities.
Wander with me, and wonder
If fullness or sweetness decides
the stationary philosophy we stamp for the post.
It was a ghost, littering the streets with gold
And we sowed our wild oats in the mortar.
Through the egress of an average existence, with
One hundred pounds on our backs, all we ever had.
—ECW
