I put it in my pocket, small
Change for a beggar, but a
Little pleasure, something.
                       I still don’t
Understand. The currency, the
Hours, the gates mashing my
Fingers, between the closing
And the light.
                       The questions I’m
Asked when I ask. The smile for
Yes, and no.

My poverty frightens you. I
Dress up. I smile, too. I
Tell you everything, now
This: The room where I read,
By the lamps of my eyes, the
Wounds and the circuses my
Flesh has become. The investment
Journals. Now you know. Your
Face on the cover. Your doubts
On the page.
Turning them, I turn myself
Into a rich man, as if your
Life could be mine, a loan
Of infinite love.