You can read them line by line, dollar by dollar, or throw the bottle against a wall and spend the feathers, or place the bottle on your shelf and admire the striations of money, which will spend, and the mark of a hand, which will live on past its mark and then not. Or you can imagine in the curled bills the phonemes at play against the discipline of the sonnet’s metrical grid. A poem that is bitter, or poem you imagine that is better than a poem could be. Money!
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