There are three sides to a coin — heads, tails, and its round enduring edge.
There is its smell, there is its taste, there is its weight, there is its heft.
There is its tactile depth — its diametric likeness to a map.
There is its real, temporary, imagined worth — the things it represents.
There is my hand. There is my pocket. There is my life. There is my death.
There is whatever great or little left of it for me to keep, or waste, or give.
Categories: New Poems & Pieces