He showed them all his treasure house

One can measure
the space
between us

in cubits
of stacked
silence

each minute
a gold bar put away
for a day that won’t come.

Some still hold hope
in bronze ages—a pay
they can weigh in years,

unfold like crisp centuries
to lay
in your palm.

But I am seconds
from where I want to be,
free to give all as alms,

to see
my dazzling return
to homelessness.

Keep your muted millennia
in marble houses
for all I care

but don’t treat me
to a tour.
I’m content

out in the cold
with nothing
but the note

in my throat,
a silvered psalm
for the naked,

for those who tell time
in touch, offer coins
as a caress

that can tip
my scale.

Published by asaur