I dig through the gray wool of the lint trap

I dig through the gray wool of the lint trap

and pull out four pennies, hot from the tumble.

I bit a hangnail while I counted the cents,

and the taste of the metal was sharp—

a copper tang that flooded the tongue.

One is from eighty-four,

crusted with a hard, sea-green rot

that has eaten the face of the man

until he is just a blunt shape

against the palm of my hand.