8/24

agora

there are crowds gathering & selling
their faces inside me. knuckles to windows.
i find coins beneath my skin. surface them
with a pocket knife. i am rich. i am rich.
a dog is licking the ground 
where a love potion spilled.
tell me, in a corridor of breath,
who do you become? i am not the weaver
looking for more wool but i could be 
the beech tree's broken tooth. woods come
& knock on the door for butter. i give 
all we have but more keep coming. 


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