I look away from my arm outstretched

and the tin can at its end because
it is cold, and because it will not beg.
. . .























. . .
I hunch on this wall on this sidewalk.

I am an old woman,
                 a rocky outcrop
in a Manhattan canyon against the current
of the crowd,
. . .























. . .
    this tin can
dipped in the cold creek like a cup.

I listen for the gravel of coins.
. . .























. . .
I see crisp bills float by like leaves.

They eddy in a hundred pockets

and settle beside the hidden organs
of love, shriveled as shrunken heads.