what I get when I feel its face
in relief against hard ground:
words and numbers circling, a date,
a motto standing proud
of the baseline
of this place

eventually I’ll come to it
as I never had before: its edge
the never-really-known-razor-precipice
which rings three-sixty around
keeping me in

world like a coin
flat, finite, value set
by law

with every step I take across its nickel floor
something in its fateful algorithm clicks
when thumb and finger flips
and, if this metaphor’s a fit hint,
maybe, when it lands and spins and sits,
maybe I’ll learn or not
the landscape of the other side
when this side quits.

Jim Culleny