Whenever the things of fortune
come to me an icy touch
is there too, because
the desperate people are invisibly
craving each find and
they haven’t sight to claim
what discolored valuables
may be found in the street.
Or if they have,
so much is there the heart
knots as if waste were tea in the belly
instead of garbage to be sacked
and choked to foulness beneath
packing paper and crates.