The poorest man in the world turned himself in to the French police a few years ago, for making unauthorized trades on the stock market. You don't really know what that means, as in all your working life, you've never had the luxury of what's called disposable income. And that man described as the poorest man in the world looks nothing but: holding a thin mobile phone to his ear, clad in some kind of torso- hugging zipped lycra shirt. There's debt, and then there's debt of another kind, more than coin that anyone could borrow to keep lives afloat. That kind is harder to repay though it seems to slip through our fingers, unwriteable like water. There's weather, or rather what weathers you: condition of need flayed repeatedly, panic of small movements until you stick a hand in the gaping wall. Something is always pouring through: a deluge, a fire-flash. And between one and the other, you swing like the lub to the dub of a heartbeat, from laminar flow to reckless turbulence.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.