It has no need of us; secret codes are thoughts
not detailed yet in encyclopedias.

They laugh at the money we have, ill-gotten, laid at our feet
by people we hardly know. The mother, a hurricane, empties our

eyes of lust it saw there once; far off gunshots inspire dreams
of gold, of flowing through crevices black with water into the child's
eye; she must endure the death of
          all she knows.