We leave behind the mountain’s
lone filling station:

Someone’s lost dog is there, chewing a chain
of dandelions roped to its paw.

A solitary man opens his billfold
and his currency, exposed to air

for the first time since, exhales
along with the dog’s done breath.

Like still burning stars flung
at the sky, money flares

past a billboard reading Last Gasp
Before Your Destination.

Bills flutter into hummingbirds.

Coins explode into the firmament,
and become it.