If you were instructed to do this: to place a letter on how well you take change into your hands and hair and eyes. How would it form and what assessment would you wind up giving your extremities and your poor poor clothing, your one box room, your slow wintering? Oh there I go projecting. The light from the lamp is not set to throw shadows on the wall, to make pictures move. The lamp is set in the corner for doing naughty lamp things.
I found a broken mirror on the sidewalk. This is good I think, but maybe bad luck to take home and place on a desk say or into my mouth. On my hand the reflection of some letters that were written there days before. No cuts. The fake-like fingers bending and pressed together. The skin all one piece except where it opens.
historically things that enter into phases are not.
lists get undone by lines through them.
the letters in my hand are not meant to be shipped.
there's a sad song on the radio and the dashed hopes in bed.
a starling does not stand a chance against the better handled gun.
the nickel is a weapon, too in its witness.