Wall Street

there are gamblings
roiling
the paint on houses,

making the leaves peel and the
eaves shake gently


the hunters moon
suspended over
a sea of chalky

middle america
street lamps

marks shouts
like accounts
being balanced
on hot red throats


out in the bigger cities, or
the biggest
the people gather their water
and voices
into one
swollen herd
pregnant with
slogans

mewling against
meadows of money:

someone stop
our highest
abstractions
from blocking the winds
that cool

let the wind shoot
across our plains!


which is when
the little houses on plains
sigh
closed throated

and simply sign the next check.