i am not my money,
that lays flat in a drawer,
a wallet,
a vault...
locked in a vault,
for heaven's sake,
who would want to be there,
to be that?
or handed to the taxman,
the plumber,
the drywaller...
no, i'm a live wire,
a hot potato,
that can't be held
alive with possibilities,
so very warm to the touch
heats up cold toes,
warms the frozen cries,
the frozen pipes
in the night
even melts the golden butter,
makes possible
the flow
and feeds,
yes, that feeds
all the hunger in the world
money does nothing at all,
made of thread and ink and metal,
it cannot even walk
it is i who am the fire,
it is i who am the source,
and i
that is
no thing
at all
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