In the creases and folds
I find the one.
He dusts me off and
puts me on a shelf.
I see him walk by
a thousand times.
I bury him again.
I'm having trouble recognizing
which of us is made of bronze -
The penny that you don't collect
'cause it's face is always turned
toward the ground.
But every hand that ever
touched me was your hand.
My skin is full of scars
from fingertips.
Sometimes I think I'll never
be warm again.
But how could you forget
a burn like that?