Found in a torn envelope
of ripped-out toenails.
As if a birthday gift.
Rotten with time
but loved still
in hiding.
Through cracks of daylight
and agile cats
and pencil shavings
in bookbinders.
These webs of time,
found in the folds of scarves and hairs.
Your dead toenail
shaved out
in inches, is
now a monument.

October 26, 2013


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