Intuition is a ghost’s desire,
a heart’s hair from breathing.
There is a fracture for a mouth
in our glory,
but we never recognize it.
We are monsters,
and doubt caresses the monster.
We are numb with money,
and our tears are swollen by sweet
Nothing satisfies our rage.
Night, covered in cloth, spreads moonlight
over the sea.
But the bankers are thieves
in our den, removing furniture and lightbulbs
from our homes.
We only recognize the theft when it
parts from us.