It begins with
a spark. The wind knows,
slipping through the square-shaped mouth
in dark-grey of a brick furnace.
It’s breathing. Flying up.
Bursting into shapeless flames.
There are people, their eyes
telling a sterile apathy, not going with
their obsessive hands to put
the gifts in. They are murmuring
an ambiguous prayer, to the hopping spirit to
morph piles of four-cornered paper sheets,
Which take the form of American dollar,
into ashes. They turn around and walk away afterwards.