My job
isn't the money
in my wallet.
Its work traffics in
currencies carried
across markets of synapses,
hedge speculating across this hedge
in lonely rental
on a white block
of new ownership.
I watch two things.
You
In every sustainable landscape
yard.
Walking in stroller tight groups
up the north city sidewalk,
hushing your milk breath words
in my awkward orbit.
Me
In every stalag-tiered thought.
Waking up every second
from the same dream
of the death of dreams
to a world
where only
one dream
exists.
My job
is to stand in the rigging,
look for the rocks
and whisper
when
I should shout.
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