from Letter in April: IV

with our money clutched

in our hands,

and the world is a white laundry,

where we are boiled and wrung

and dried and ironed,

and smoothed down

and forsaken

we sweep

back

in children’s dreams

of chains and jail

and the heartfelt sigh

of liberation

and in the spark trails

of feelings

the fire eater

the cigarette swallower

come

to light

and we pay

and distance ourselves

with laughter.