love poem 470

the purse
made by * this pout
(silently sewn) will take
no movement * as its currency
nor proffer
any
change . . . gold * galling
as words we * 've never spoke
(spokes of wrinkles round * this future
's wretched wheel) and thus nothing
accrued ! a crude
pecuniary
curse !
which by
the palling * purse
in our lost eternal interest
such tern taciturn panics cannot
get * beyond ! beyond its hiding of
heavy secrets : our own bold
bankruptcies * which
break
in invested instants
all dissolutions still enduring
the riled * reticent stasis of a poofed
pomegranate diamond : in slight
parting's poverty invests
its never * -ending
exhaled
ends