Not Exactly Science Fiction

On such a shore, under a steel sun,

We confessed 

Antimatter poems.

If only to know, 
What number is in last place?

There is a visage 

And there are antimatter poems.

Raised in nests,

On the green wings of a fervent dusk,

Raised on how the wind
Narrows in on   
The plume of road

This currency is unable to attend a bank, though it stands by the river, and pays for everything.