October 8

I’m collecting my life in quarters.
Every year a bit of alloy. In my palm

A pile of tiny time machines.
Some I have kept close:

A single moonbeam, a summer
Alone, a goat, a glimpse

Of what won’t dissolve
Even when devalued.

I’ve tried to ignore the years
When you forgot my name

And then your voice
And then your self

Because there’s still no coin
Of a realm where you’re gone