There's a soft grating in between your finger tips.
A thin slot of knuckles, for nickels and dimes
when they drop from pant-pocket holes, worn and guilty.
It's always harder to take than it is to give.
But trash cans never regret.
Purpose: Check.
Validity: Check.
Reality: Hand-drawn check in black sharpie across the steel.
Sink deeply, black ink
welcomed wearily into the soul
through clasped hands,
past kneeling knees
and off the sidewalk cracks into the grass
while their eyes are still closed,
trying to feel the touch of the invisible.
Matter is what matters,
not reality,
or the shreds each mind tapes back together;
the pictures esteemed by an eye forgot.
Points of view are only valuable when they aren't,
And I guess that's a disappointment, with too much proof.