Heads

Out of the lint trap, warm as skin—

Lincoln's jaw, the green crept in

along the chin. I stood and turned it.

The dryer ticking down. I'd earned it

by staying up. The date worn flat,

the year erased. I thought about that,

how something travels pocket to drum

to lint screen, still holding some

residual warmth. I set it on the lid.

Heads, which figured. The thing did

what pennies do. I left it there.

The light above the washer. Bare

bulb, humming wrong for months.

I went to bed.