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Scrooge and Marley
Coins in the hand,
from the eye holes, blind
to hell's ruby-stellated cobbles
and the ice of bad times.
A parchment is scratched
by a clerks cold bones;
tallied by the blood-ounce.
Each meal a bite of coal,
a bog-tree's corpse,
choking the street with a last laugh.
Coins in a crippled grip,
crab apples.
Heaven's sweet fog moulded into gold;
money into myrrh.
Such are the weak gifts
of today.
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