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. How, Turning them, I turn myself Into a rich man, as if your Life could be mine, a loan Of infinite love.