i count my pennies with the
clumsiness of my left wrist.
my fingertips stumble upon
lifting these silver tins, before
my eyes; as i examine the glean
and rust of each rounded chip.
i wonder how it is, that these
shallow etchings are drawn beside
the reshaping of your carved
intellect, our shared dreams, our
bold visions. and as the thought
escapes me, my fingers fumble
and like our tattered foresight; all
is soon, strewn and abandoned
for insipid wonder.