And the days spill like soot from a fireplace,
ash of them dusting skin.
Days hoarded like krugerrands.
Days transfixed, pinned
like beetles to the pages
of her clothes. Their passage a shuffle
of dried leaves, hoarse whisper
of an overdue bill. She plucks
unattended days out of the air
—hey presto and a shower of doves.
Days like confetti litter the streets.
Days like bankers litter the streets.
How they gather, the days. Haggard moths
to a lantern. Hungry mouths
to a soup canteen.
A paper boat of wasted days
unfolds in the gutter, forgets itself
in the rain.