Hone

The bread is harder than I thought.

I’m looking at the bird on the fence,

and my thumb just brushes the silver ridge,

the way a cold thought brushes the mind.

It isn't a tool, not really.

It’s a boundary.

A line between the pulse in my wrist

and the air in the room.

The light hits the metal and shows me

how thin the skin is getting,

how easily the world gets in.