In black midnight,
the white moon, like a nun
sits stonely.

The sliding moon is toxic
and you are not ready to
die for the theme.

The high priests will
weave the faux mantras to
invoke the goddess of wealth.

The debt pervades in every
relief. I survive the ignominy
of not touching a yogi.

And you, little brown bread,
will not feed the thousands
who come clamouring for a bite.