#13
pieces of me fall to the floor faster
than I can pick myself up. My soul
lies in my shoes next to the
scattered clumps of hair I cut
for you.
I’ve emptied my pockets on your carpet
so many times that I have no change
to feed the meter of my lines.
You appeared out of nowhere
like a quarter from behind my ear,
shiny from her hands,
but she hadn’t rubbed your edges smooth.
She left your spine jagged, jutting
under my palms. You left holes
on my hands where I held you
but when you held me,
the time in the meters stopped.
Changing Shapes 