I bent coins with my teeth, and they broke. That’s what currency can’t reconcile, green stacks and time, its escapements, the gleaming plates, the missing letter. A bicycle comes down from the attic in time but in time for what? Love spun in the mouth? The set-up, the derailleur oil, the grandmar legged in the crystal snifter, the sea pulled along like blue ribbons at the grips? Forgive my objectless fragments. I’m a fraud. Joints crack and burn, swifts sweeping every day into new chimney aches, a flea in the ear, a moon in a tree, a molten spot hidden under black fur, the light gold disc thrown too far toward the curve in the road. Broken eyes and a heart on the street. What list is clear? Citrine eyes: if only we could look with them long enough to see what worlds they make of us, their shepherds handy with chains. If only brindle didn’t silver. The past is black and white, the smirk of daguerreotypes, the future other shades, another pair of colors seeping like clay along the edges of the house, the nervures of leaves on the pavement.