there is no window

that has not been filled

with cold hard bills

stacked up like bricks

to block out the sun.

In the dream of money

a woman gives birth

to a baby that cries

and cries until filled

with spoonful after

spoonful of coins.

In the dream of money

someone says, capitalism

is in our blood, and,

indeed the ground below

us is stained with money.

In the dream of money

money falls from clouds

but burns to ash before

hands lifted skyward

in prayer can reach them.

In the dream of money

all prayers start and end

with money, and the newly

converted fall to the floor

and writhe until they’re

covered in a blanket

of stitched together bills.

In the dream of money

we’re told that everyone’s

a winner before our

shirts are stuffed with

cash, our pants stuffed

with money, all of us hoisted

up like scarecrows in a field

of scarecrows, all of us

lifted onto our own posts,

coming apart in the wind.

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