August: early rains in the south, 
and fires in the west. River birds sketch 
figures  on water. Dearest ones, 
whatever accounts were entered there 
have yielded up their remaining 
balances. I'm spending every
bright pebble I find. The shallows gleam
with all the currency fallen from the moon's 
poor-box—greens and blues, discs of scarred 
copper. Meanwhile, every drawer of this house  
hoards a collection of all we fed to our ghosts. 
In the end, there will be nothing left to collect.  

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