a blue pen and ragged cap, for the impression of his teeth, dipped in new
sweet wine
a brown switch of goldfish weed, because he pet-names his plants, bound
in white thread
for constancy coins from his cottage couch, thrown three times onto
red silk copper constellations a tin Eiffel Tower from his desk, hung
with electrical wire
above a live wick one prescription note, shoved down the front
of my pants & rubbed to sweet pulp inside my legs the lowest of charms
thumbprint, left, from sticky cover of Maclean’s (hopefully his) cut five
times, ridge to centre & boiled for tea (the “Roman cure,” last hope of
fading virgins and fatties)
nineteen paperclips, straightened to shivs, silver minnows nine for
each shoe
& one to cut with