I.
we slit holes in our worn pockets
and emptied a tin box of pennies into them:
sieves filled with copper,
wandering up and down sidewalks
(pastfrontporchesacrossvacantlotsthroughparks)
coins clinking and chattering at our feet.
we walk backwards to see that they fall facing up.
we leave a shimmering trail,
a winding spider’s web of luck.
II.
the wells in our pockets run dry.
III.
we delve into our satchels,
removing (oneatatime) matchboxes,
opening each drawer (oneatatime)
turning it upside down…
trickling through our fingers onto the cement:
an unused shooting star trapped in a film canister,
a few falcon feathers we used when we were learning to fly
(we don’t need those anymore)
a scuffed sepia stack of polaroids,
from that day we put the armchair in the tallest pine tree
behind the creek and sat for hours, swaying, almostfalling,
handfuls of jet black glass beads
(in rome. the beautiful woman,
tower of ivory clothed in ebony,
her necklace snapped and she didn’t slow her steps.
we sat on the street corner, picking her gems
from the gutter)
IV.
we throw our satchels aside
and strip off our clothing, dropping each garment,
the last stretch of our trail
leading only (to us and) the slab of concrete under our feet
all we have left is a kiss
strung on a length of yellow ribbon.
the tailor made it to onlyever fit us.
