Points of Contact

I was walking to the sink to get a glass

of water in the dark when it bit me.

A sharp, metallic sting that made me gasp

and sit on the edge of the tub, checking the damage.

It was a rusted brass tack, the one that held

the flyer for the lost spaniel from three years ago.

The dog is probably gone, or old, or found,

but the paper stayed until the gravity won.

A single drop of blood hit the white bathmat,

a bright, sudden coin of my own making.

I held the tack in my palm, wondering

how many other things are just waiting to fall.