Matt Stansberry
Two Coins
My friend had a coin, untouched by human
hands, that he dropped and had to
pick up, its casing broken.A sterile token, minted by virgins
like an unmanned spacecraft
orbiting a planet of curiosa.Fated to gravitate towards novelty-real
gold flakes in vials of water,
souvenir owl pellets, lava from Vesuvius.And it reminded me of my coin, a three-cent piece
in a flat box on the top shelf of a gun safe
bolted into the floor.Tarnished disc, damaged saucer with the worn
face of Hermes, praying for rescue
from an alien tomb, its people to return.
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