In the
Gold sheath/ the
gilded fur pocket
with inner smooth leather
stapled still
by rusted iron,
lays snuggled a ruby
ball, a globe of blood red, eye bloodshot
red. It is the hope
of philosophers
and their lensless, plastic glasses
that shutter at the tips of offered
hands – a senseless gesture –
that cripples resolve.

Fingers tip marbled ruby,
to tease the eyes
and beckon wisdom. And Wisdom is
in the pockets of thieves.
In their pouches and their layered garments.
It is in the wolf fur, the beaver fur,
the alligator skin,
that wraps around their flimsy purses, and makes them purse
their lips.

In the gold pouch
with the animal print and tags.
It is our blood eye of wrath or lust,
of all vices as they grip us in their vice grip
and topple us with a touch, a push,
A look from the top down.