Double Entry

A lute strums beyond the window,
florins gleam on the fresh, white cloth:
the ledger can contrive the polis;
empty hands can always grasp death.
Across vistas workers die,
across time the campecinos are gleaned
like wheat.

In Spain, in Greece, in Guatemala,
in Chile and El Salvador,
his wit unleashed a bloodlust.
Such a simple, civilized gesture, such a profound
and clever invention: the coins gleam like drops
of golden blood.

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