If there were paper under my heart there would
be writing on it and maybe it would be red
like the blood-orange warning of dawn-burst
or nuclear-fall-out-in-reverse-of-dusk, whose
scattered, tattered- knicker clouds conceal
real live U.F.O's, and non-exchangeable
for a raffle ticket when the fiver-river drones.
That page, my wage, an underground organ,
w/ its meta-fictional shorthand and triplicate, I'd ask her:
surely it would feel shocked not to be legal tender?