Lexa Hillyer

Loose Change

I woke up eye to eye with a dime
resting by my pillow, dose of silver,
distillation of time.

In a moment of passion I seem to have left
my scarf like a stain in the seat of the cab.

Remember when you had a nickel
like a button, stuck to your behind?
For some reason you couldn't feel it.

The city is haggard, haunted,
listening, maybe, for the faint wail
of night missiles arching
over the dark plain of sky
                                               flailing
into the unknown.

After our first flash of heat, street cafés
have gone back under cover,
as rain hesitates.

It's March now and I can't find the words.

Concrete sieves suck the life out of the streets,
then blow it back up, filthy and warm.
I'm panting,
                    taking the stairs by twos,
climbing far above this city, far above
this state-where sadness
looks like a child asleep.

Loose change scatters across the dresser top,
clattering of bells, spelling out
stars, planets, a constellation of laundry quarters:

each one round as the end will be.

We are subdued.
The moon's crawled out of hiding-
we must have lost our count.

Maybe we'll never know what all we've lost.